


Here Comes The Night Time

by LemonadeGarden



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-22
Updated: 2017-05-04
Packaged: 2018-09-19 05:50:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 10
Words: 35,343
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9421322
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LemonadeGarden/pseuds/LemonadeGarden
Summary: "Would you ever do it?" Jason asks, "would you ever kill someone, if you absolutely had to?""No." Bruce's voice is resolute. Firm. "I would never kill anyone.""Not even if they harmed us? Dick? Babs?"Bruce sighs, threading his fingers through Jason's hair. "Not even then. Not ever."Bruce Wayne breaks lots of promises that he made to himself after Jason Todd dies. He vows to kill the Joker, but that's not going to happen. Atleast, not on Tim Drake's watch. Part emotional drama and relationship dynamics, and part casefic.In which a man is broken and fixed again. Written in a non-linear narrative, but shouldn't be very hard to understand.





	1. Sugar Bowl

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, then. This is going to be a relatively short story, not more than five or six chapters long. It's my take on what happens after the events of 'A death in the Family.' Lots of canon deviation, but no OOC characterization. Title based off of the song [ of the same name. ](https://youtu.be/3z6gtlU2HXU)
> 
> I will post a new chapter every Sunday.
> 
> Enjoy!

"Bruce," Jason's voice is whisper quiet through the communicator, and Bruce doesn't chide him for using civilian names for once. "Could you put me next to my mom? She wasn't much of a mother, but she was something, at least." He sounds composed, almost like he's resigned to the fact that he's dying. Normal fifteen year olds shouldn't sound like that.

Normal fifteen year olds don't die alone in abandoned warehouses, beaten up by psychotic clowns.

Batman says nothing except for a whispered, "Hang on, Robin. You're not going to die." He sounds sure of himself, even to his own ears, while the wind whips through his cape as he drives towards Jason's location at a breakneck speed.

Jason coughs wetly, and the sound is sharp and sends a shard of deep, searing _fear_ through Batman's chest. His coughing should not sound like that. His lungs may be filled with fluid. His hands clench tighter on the handles of the bike, accelerating.

"But I am," Jason's voice is so soft that Batman can barely make it out over the wind. "The bomb's going to go off, and then I'll be dead."

He speaks suddenly in an angry tone, low and biting. "Why didn't you come for me? Where were you?"

Bruce says nothing. A trickle of shame is slowly running down his back.

"You promised you'd always be there." Jason says, whispering hoarsely.

"Jay, I-" Bruce can't seem to finish the sentence.

There's a pause where both father and son say nothing, and Bruce stares blindly ahead. All he can hear is the wind shrieking by him.

"I'm sorry," he says finally. "I'll be there in five minutes. Four."

Jason coughs again. "Okay," he whispers. "Come fast. I'm scared."

Normal fifteen year olds should be doing homework and watching TV and _living_ and _breathing_.

Bruce hears nothing anymore from Jason after that, except for his quiet gasps. Has he blacked out? The wind howls around him as he drives off the road and onto a pavement. It's a cruel and unrestrained night; there are no stars in the sky.  
He can see no hookers or addicts milling around. Do they know that he was here today? That after breaking out of Arkham again, he came here to hunt down a child? Was Bruce the only one who didn't realise it?

" _Dad?_ " Jason rasps out suddenly, like he's remembered something long forgotten. "Dad, I love y-"

The explosion is so loud that Bruce can't even hear it. A wall of soundless fire. As he looks up at the flames, the internal auditory and hair cells of his ears have already started to die. There is some kind of a rapid ringing or roaring in his ears. In his chest.

He stares at the flames, and his whole world ends.

  
**____________________**

  
When Jason was twelve years old, he ran away from home.

He and Bruce had been having an argument about Robin, and Jason had been determined to win this time.

"I've been watching you train _every day_ for the last _two years_! I watch surveillance tapes from the batcave _all the time_! I _know_ how Gotham operates, Bruce. I _know_ the streets. Let me do this. This kind of stuff would _never_ happen if you had a partner. Someone to watch your six." Jason had said, his eyes fierce and bright.

Bruce shook his head, taking his cowl off. He staggered to the medbay, gasping, and trying to keep the pressure constant on his shoulder wound. "You're too young."

Jason had exhaled noisily, bringing the suture kit and rubbing alcohol out from a cupboard. Held Bruce's hand straight for him while he dressed the wound and started stitching it up. Taking care of him even when he was raging mad.

"I think," Jason had growled, "you know that I can do six different kinds of martial arts. I can stitch up a wound four different ways. I can incapacitate people without ever using more than my hands. I'm _ready_ , Bruce."

" _No_ you're not. What I teach you on the practice mats is very different from what goes on in those streets."

A long sullen silence while Jason finished up Bruce stitches, his face flushed red with anger. Bruce found that he was growing angry himself. What had Jason expected? That he would be ready after a few _months_ of self defense classes? He had been training for _years_ , and he still got hurt in the field.

Jason shut the suture kit with a bang. "You let Dick run around in his stupid panties when he was what, _nine? Ten?_ "

"Dick was _different_!" Bruce had yelled, running a frustrated hand through his hair. "I had to put him out on the field otherwise, after everything, his parents' death, Zucco, he would have self-destructed."

Jason had gone very still. "Dick's different." He said, quietly. "Of course. Of _fucking_ course." Then he went upstairs without another word.

Bruce was too angry to read into that, and since when was he any good at reading into things?  
So he'd stripped off the rest of the armour, showered, and gone to sleep without dinner, still half-furious.

In the morning Jason was gone.

Jason ran, but Bruce found him. He found him and brought him home, like he would _always_ find him and bring him home.

  
He had found Jason curled up in the middle of a bed, sniffling occasionally. Bruce had shut his eyes for a second, relieved. "Are you okay?"

Jason had looked up at him, his knees drawn up to his chin, and rubbed at his eyes. "How did you find me?" He had asked, his voice small.

Bruce had surveyed the room. The bed Jason had been sitting on was tiny, its frail frame stripped bare, its wood eaten away in some places by termites. The walls were damp, smelling of moss and rain and cold. Once upon a time, they looked like they had been painted a warm yellow colour. There was no radiator. The ceiling plaster was cracking and flaking in several places, ravaged by time. The room was mostly bare, save for the bed and a small bedside table. In the corner of one wall, a few drawings were pinned up, the papers yellowing with age.

Bruce took off his scarf and coat, and put them around Jason. "Next time you decide to run away from the manor, wear warmer clothes. It's freezing out."

Jason pulled Bruce's coat closer to his small shoulders. It seemed to almost swallow him whole. He avoided Bruce's eyes, still sniffling.

Bruce sat down next to him, the bed groaning under their collective weight. "Are you going to run away again." He had asked, not a question, not really. They had both known the answer.

Jason shook his head, his face turned away from Bruce's. "No."

Bruce buttoned up the coat until it was drawn up to Jason's chin, and then looped the scarf tighter around Jason's neck. "Are you sure," He asked, picking Jason up deftly.

Jason puts his arms around Bruce's neck. "Yeah," he said, against Bruce's lapel. Then, after a short pause, he asked in that same small voice, "Are you mad at me?"

"A little," Bruce said, walking towards the door. "Do you have all your things with you? Where's your bag pack?"

"In the kitchen," Jason said, his breathe warm, in little tufts on Bruce's neck.

Bruce headed to the kitchen, which was no better than the bedroom. One section of the wall was wet and covered with algae, where sections of pipes have been exposed and had started leaking slowly. The counters were sticky and dust-filled with disuse. A fridge in the corner, with no electricity running through it. The stove looked ancient. Bruce didn't want to think about what the state of the cabinets will be, if he opened them.

In the centre of the room, was a small dining set, with two chairs, on one of which was Jason's backpack. Bruce imagined that Jason would leave it there every day after school as well. He picked it up and slung it over his shoulder. He adjusted Jason's weight so that it was more evenly distributed on his forearm, and walked out of the kitchen.  
"What's in this?" He asked.

"Saltine crackers, a flashlight, ten dollars, a raincoat, two packets of marshmallows, two bandaids and a book." Jason said.

Bruce's mouth quirked upwards. " _Two_ packets of marshmallows?"

Jason huffed, embarrassed. "I wasn't really thinking."

"I know," Bruce said, his voice quiet. "Don't do this again, okay? You can't run away every time we have a fight."

Jason was silent for a while, but he had eventually nodded.

"Is there something you want to do? Before we leave the flat?" Bruce asked the mop of dark hair resting on his shoulder.

Jason turns over a little so that Bruce could see his face. "No-I," he paused as he reconsidered, "maybe see my mom's room."

Bruce carried him to the other bedroom in the small flat, one that was slightly larger, but not by much. He set Jason down gently.

Jason studied the room, his eyes flickering over the bed, the lamp, the tiny TV. There was nothing here anymore. "You never answered the question. About how you found me."

Bruce looked at him, and serious blue eyes stared back. Bruce shifted his weight slightly to his other foot. "I don't know if you know this," Bruce said, "but in certain circles I'm called the world's greatest detective."

Jason grinned for maybe the first time that day, and Bruce found himself smiling back.

"Let's go home, Jason."

**___________________**

  
Jason ran, but Bruce found him. He found him and brought him home, like he always finds him and brings him home.

Like he's doing now, frozen emotions clawing at his sides as he looks at the wreckage of the explosion, his lungs punctured with wild rage and fear. A small body in his lap.

The dying light of the fire from the explosion as the last of it peters out.

Dying. Dead.

Oh god _oh god oh god_. He shuts his eyes again.

It's his job. His job as a father to bring his son home.

Even if it's in a body bag.

**____________________**

  
**INCIDENT REPORT #897**

 **CASE NUMBER:** nil.

 **DATE/TIME REPORTED:** 27th April, 01:43 AM EST.

 **LOCATION:** Abd. warehouse- Crime Alley rd., Block 2, Gotham, NJ.

 **INCIDENT TYPE/ OFFENSE:** One count of murder. One count of arson via explosives (c4 type + other unknown types)

 _OFFENDING PERSON(s):_ Joker (refer to case files **#50** , **#62** , **#86** , **#137** and **#271-274** )

 **VEHICLE(s):** nil.

 **VICTIM(s):** Jason P. Todd/ Robin.

 **REPORTING PERSON(s):** Batman

 **NARRATIVE:** On 27th April, at 01:43, I received a distress call from Robin via communicator. The signal was weak and his message was unclear at first. Robin implied that he had been hurt badly and needed immediate backup. He had also managed to deduce his location and informed me of such. I responded by informing him that my ETA would be approximately 15 minutes.

On my way to his location, Robin started to sound increasingly panicked and delirious. Only after approx. 10 minutes into my journey did he inform me of extensive lacerations to his head, abdomen and back. He also told me that the warehouse was rigged with time-controlled explosives. Robin was starting to black out and wake in fits- I advised him to try to find possible exits if he could move. He told me there were none. He blacked out again.

At ETA 5 minutes Robin regained consciousness and asked me where I was. After my subsequent response, Robin told me that the Joker had been involved. He also said other things to me, of a personal nature.

At ETA 4 minutes, the warehouse blew up. On arrival, I observed that Robin's body was covered with a fine coating of industrial grade powder explosive. Any tries to find another sample of this explosive has yielded no results. Investigation of the warehouse could not be conducted due to extensive damage and charring. I retrieved Robin's body, and went back to the batcave.

Robin was pronounced dead at 02:21 AM EST at the Batcave. Autopsy conducted at 05:12 AM. We did not take him to any hospitals for obvious reasons.

  
It has only been edited once, to add one line.

**_____________________**

The funeral takes place on the last day of April. It's in a public cemetery. They're burying him next to his mother.

It's small; only a handful of people attend. Dick comes, his face completely drained of any colour, and some of his friends from the Titans, standing beside him in respectful silence. Clark and Diana. The rest of the league offered to come but Clark must have said something to them, so thankfully they are not here today. Alfred stands to a side, looking fixedly away from the coffin. Leslie Thompkins, blotting the corners of her eyes with a tissue. Selina doesn't come. Bruce didn't expect her to, not with league members around. Barbara. Himself. No one else.

It doesn't rain, like it does in the movies. It's a bright day, the sun glinting off of the wood of the coffin. It fills him with a kind of sickness. Jason will never be able to see the sun again. He will never be able to feel it on his back, or on his face as he goes out in the summer. And Bruce will. A thousand small betrayals with every thing he can do, but Jason can't anymore.

Throughout the service, he can feel the people in attendance looking at him, trying to guage his emotions. He stares blindly ahead, trying to mask the huge and empty thing inside him.

When the coffin is lowered onto the ground, Dick hugs Bruce and cries quietly into his shoulder. "It's not fair," he whispers, sobbing, "It's not _fair_."

It's not fair. Bruce puts a hand on the back of Dick's neck, holding him against his shoulder as he cries. Still staring straight ahead. People are looking again.  
He should have hugged Jason more.

A thousand small betrayals.

  
**______________________**

  
Work. He buries himself in the work, so he doesn't have to think. This is his fault, so he should be the one cleaning up the mess.

Eyewitness reports inform him that the Joker and his accomplice, Doctor Quinzel, were last seen in new Orleans, where they had hijacked a tram and drove it around for six hours, passengers held hostage, and jumped off at around eleven in the night along with their hostages' possessions. Cash, jewellery, cell phones. Other than that, there have been a suspicious lack of sightings. The Joker and Harley Quinn are in hiding.

"They're celebrating," Clark says one day, spinning the sugar bowl that Alfred left on the table along with their cups of coffee. On every third spin, the momentum of the bowl increases and a few grains of powdery white fall onto the table. Bruce picks up his coffee. He always has it black. The sugar is for Clark, who says that since the caffeine does nothing for him, he might as well make it taste good.

"Celebrating what?" Bruce asks, even though he has a fair idea. He sips his coffee, and eyes the fallen sugar. His hand itches to make Clark stop.

"He got out of Arkham, with her help. He carried out a string of bank robberies. Murdered a child," here Clark pauses, looking at him carefully, and Bruce glares back, "who he knows was Batman's partner. And to top it all off, he hasn't been caught yet."

Bruce stops glaring at him and considers his coffee, the steam wafting up.

The night at the warehouse, Bruce had found no discernible signs pointing to the Joker's involvement in this. None of the usual Joker cards, no tortured victims mutilated with knife cuts near their mouth, mimicking macabre smiles. No Joker venom, nothing. The Joker had left before Batman even got there, something that rarely took place. The Joker liked being found. Paid attention to.

"He's usually a one-act show. He makes a grand gesture, usually public, and then he lets himself get caught. He wants to everyone to know that he was responsible. So what's different about this time?"

Clark shrugs. "Change of motive? Maybe he doesn't want to be found yet because he has to execute another part of the plan. Maybe this wasn't the third act. Maybe something worse is coming."

**_____________________**

  
He finds her on the rooftop of the natural history museum. She's sitting precariously on the ledge, her knee bobbing up and down anxiously. When she sees him, her shoulders slump slightly. Her goggles glint in the stark streetlight.

"Oh, _Bruce_ ," She whispers, standing up. "How are you?"

It's a cold night for May, and that's how Bruce feels. Unnaturally cold.

"Fine." He says, gritting the answer out through his teeth. He looks at the small pouch attached to her belt. He doesn't have time for this. He needs to go back to work. "What did you steal this time?"

Selina blinks, taken aback by his brusqueness. "I didn't steal anything, Bruce. I just came here because I… I thought you'd want to talk about it."

He shakes his head. "There's nothing to talk about. It's all over."

Selina pulls off her mask and goggles. She's never as bothered about her secret identity as he is. It's stupid and dangerous, and it may get her killed.  
She's staring at him with a strange look on her face. Concern and pity. "He was your _son_. Of course you have to talk about it."

He glares at the skyline. "Catwoman, do I have to arrest you tonight or not?"

Selina takes a step back, away from him. Her face hardens a bit. "Of course not, honey," She says, her voice silky soft even though there's anger underneath it. "Here, check my bag." She throws her pouch at him, streaking upwards in a neat arc, and Bruce catches it mid-air.

There's nothing inside. Her house keys. A lipstick. A small knife. The burner cell that she called him on.

She glares at him the whole time he's checking it. "Find anything?"

"No." He says, and looks at the bag for a long time. Then he goes to the ledge and leans against it, putting his head in his hands.

"Oh, _Bruce_ ," She says again.

"You didn't come to the funeral." He says, and he sounds tired even to himself.

She comes and sits next to him, their shoulders touching. "No, but I thought we'd agreed that I'm not welcome in that part of your life." She says lightly.

The stars are wailing in the night sky, painful but clear light flowing through their collective harmonies.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Maybe not, but you said it. Besides," she says, looking at him with her strange and beautiful eyes, "I don't mind. We keep what we do restricted to nights and rooftops. I like the arrangement."

She says it casually but all he can hear is hurt. Why does he keep breaking things? Breaking the people around him, with his stupid, clumsy hands?

"I don't feel like talking."

"Okay," She says, and they sit there for one hour, two hours, three, listening to the stars sing their last songs with a quivering breath.

**_______________________**

Bruce drives through the long tunnel, his jaw tight. His hand is clenched so hard on the wheel that it looks like it hurts. Jason sits next to him, strapped into the safety harnesses, staring up at him the whole time. Bruce looks straight ahead, avoiding his gaze. Jason wonders through the haze of his own burning anger, if Bruce will ever talk to him again.

The batmobile drifts to a stop at the parking pad of the batcave. Bruce starts turning off various switches, and the low thrum of the engine comes to a stop. They take off their harnesses and climb out of the car. He strides to the computers without a word to Jason, taking off his gauntlets angrily. Jason follows him.

"Bruce, I-"

"Not a _word_. Go upstairs and clean up." Bruce growls out, taking off his cowl.

"Would you just _listen_ to what-"

Bruce spins around, heat in his eyes. "Yes Jason, _please_. _Please_ give me _all_ your justifications for killing that defenseless man."

Jason scowls back, " _Defenseless_? He raped and murdered a woman! There are _lots_ of words for people like that. Lots and lots of words, Bruce. _Defenseless_ is not one of them. And I didn't _kill_ him, Bruce. You know that."

"No, you only about _broke his neck_ when you dropped a crate on his _head_." Bruce shouts, his voice echoing through the cave.

"He _deserved_ it, Bruce! And you know what? I'm _glad_ I killed him. I'm _glad_ he's dead." Jason is shouting too, jabbing his finger at Bruce's chest.

" _No one_ deserves do die in an alley for _no fucking reason at all_!" Bruce roars, and his voice is so full of something so terribly huge and sad that Jason has to take a step back.

They stand there facing each other, clearly at an impasse, Bruce's chest heaving from shouting.

"No one." Bruce repeats, quieter this time.

Jason's fist clench and unclench. The air around them feels cold and viscous.

"I'm sorry," Jason says finally, and Bruce lets out a breath.

"-about your parents. They didn't deserve it. But this man _did_."

Bruce shuts his eyes, looking suddenly more tired than Jason has ever seen him. Then he does an odd thing. A very odd thing, that Jason has never seen him do before.

He stretches his arms out for a hug.

Jason is in them before he can even think about it. He presses his cheek to the bat symbol on Bruce's chest, and Bruce's arms tighten around his shoulders.

"It's not our place to decide." Bruce says.

Jason nods, even though he doesn't agree. He can see that no amount of reasoning is going to make Bruce see sense. And he would pick fighting alongside Bruce any day over killing people and working alone. But he won't change his mind over the killing. Not ever. Jason knows it, and so does Bruce, judging from how weary he looks.

Jason looks up at him. The sharp angles and lines that make up Bruce's face seem softer somehow. Almost blurred, as he runs a hand over it.

"Would you ever do it?" Jason asks, "would you ever kill someone, if you absolutely had to?"

"No." Bruce's voice is resolute. Firm. "I would never kill anyone."

"Not even if they harmed us? Dick? Babs?"

Bruce sighs, threading his fingers through Jason's hair. "Not even then. Not ever."

**__________________**

"Something _worse_ coming?" Bruce asks, raising an eyebrow. Clark clearly has a flair for the dramatic. "As in?"

Clark goes back to spinning the sugar bowl, and every hair on the back of Bruce's neck stands up with frustration.

"I don't know, Bruce. You're the expert when it comes to him. Maybe he could try to poison the water supply?"

"The Riddler tries that every Friday. It'll be something else."

"I suppose he might try to kidnap another vigilante who works closely with you. Keep a closer eye on Dick. And Barbara."

"Dick's in Blüdhaven, and Babs lives in the same house as Gotham's police commissioner. Besides, they have tracking systems built into their suits." Bruce says, staring at Clark's hand. It spins thrice. Spin spin spin pause. Spin spin spin pause.

Clark raises an eyebrow. "And do they have any knowledge about these tracking systems?"

At Bruce's silence, Clark chuckles. "Of course. Batman and his contingencies and backup co-"

With a loud clatter of China, Bruce sets down his teacup and shoves Clark's hand away from the sugar bowl.

Clark looks at him, surprised.

"That was bothering me," Bruce says, quietly.

Clark is silent, pursing his lips. Bruce can practically feel his disapproval.

He exhales loudly, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Clark, stop it."

"Stop what."

Bruce picks up his cup again. "Worrying about my mental health. Stop it. I'm _fine_."

Clark shakes his head, "Your son died a week back. His funeral was yesterday. _No one_ in your place should be okay."

"I'm fine," He repeats.

"Bruce, I mean it. Take a break for a short while. Go somewhere. Hawaii, Paris, whatever. Take Dick with you. I'll take care of Gotham for a few weeks. I'm sure they'll love Superman."

Bruce says nothing for a long time. Maybe if he stays quiet and still for long enough, the waves of anger simmering off of him will stop.

"You want me," Bruce says, "to go on a vacation to _Hawaii_ , while my son's murderer is at large?"

"Bruce," Clark's voice is soft, "It doesn't make you less of a person to seek help. You could talk to someone. A therapist, maybe."

Bruce takes a deep breath. If he hits Clark, he'll break his own arm anyway. "I'm going to find the Joker. I won't stop until I find him."

Clark looks at him with eyes that know. He's never seen Superman look scared before.

Jason only looks at him with eyes that are dead.

 _No,_ he tells Jason, a conversation from a lifetime ago _. No. I would never do it._

"And when you find him?" Clark asks, avoiding his eyes.

 _And if someone harmed us?_  
_Not even then._

Bruce's eyes are steely. The cup in his hands does not shake.

_Never._

"I'm going to kill him."

 

 


	2. Pressure Points

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim Drake sees just how cruel Batman can get.

An eleven year old Jason Todd looks up from his plate, his mouth full of pasta, "Alfie, this is the best thing I've ever eaten. In my _entire_ _life_."

Alfred is washing the dishes in the kitchen, humming some old musical number. "Glad to be of service, Master Jason. It would make me even happier if you started eating your meals in the dining room henceforth. Wayne manor does not have a table that seats fourteen, just so that you can dine in the kitchen."

Jason points his fork at Alfred, "Exactly. It seats fourteen, Alfie. _Fourteen_. And guess how many people are sitting there right now."

"Zero," Jason says, before Alfred can even answer. "It's kinda sucky to have to sit there all by yourself. Plus, you're in the kitchen, and I'm gratuitous enough to give you my company."

" _Gracious_ ," Alfred says, dryly. " _Gracious_ enough. I am _very_ grateful. _Thank_ you, master Jason."

"You're welcome, Alf." Jason says, apparently missing all the sarcasm. "Where's Bruce, anyway?"

"Master Bruce has decided to retire to the penthouse this night." Alfred says, his face unreadable.

Jason nods knowingly, "Selina?"

"No. A lady who works in his PR department. Her name is Lucy, I've been told. She got her Master's degree from Wichita. She has five dogs in her family's farmhouse."

Jason makes a face. "He knows it's okay to bring them here, right? I'm not an idiot. I know what goes on under the sheets."

Alfred makes a sound that's somewhere between a cough and a laugh. "Goes on under the sheets. Very well, master Jason. I could not have _hoped_ to have put it as eloquently as that."

Jason grins. "Glad to be of service."

"Frankly," Alfred says, finishing the last of the dishes, "I approve. The manor is no place for nightly indiscretions. Especially not in the presence of an impressionable child."

"Don't patronise me, ya prude," Jason says, good-naturedly.

Alfred smiles back, "Very well, Master Jason."

**______________________**

The next week, sometime around mid-morning, Jason goes to Bruce's study. Bruce is sitting behind his desk, writing or signing something. The study is shrouded in silence. The periodic scratching of his pen is the only sound Jason can hear.

"Bruce?"

Bruce grunts in answer.

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Aren't you already?" Bruce says, a little testily. He doesn't like being interrupted when he's working.

Jason ignores him, and hoists himself up to sit on the desk next to Bruce's paperwork. Bruce's sigh is audible.

"What is it, Jason?" He asks, not looking up from the documents.

"How do you know Batman?" Jason asks, swinging his feet from the desk.

The scratching noise of the pen stills.

"He's a friend," Bruce says, finally.

"A friend? Is that why he dropped me off to your place?"

"I would assume so, yes." Bruce goes back to writing. His fountain pen looks like it costs more than all the clothes Jason owned back when he lived with his mom.

"D'you know how he found me? Batman?" Jason asks, grinning at the memory.

Bruce shakes his head. "No. Jason, I really need to finish th-"

"So he caught me stealing his tires. The tires of the batmobile. You know the batmobile? It's the big tank thing he keeps driving around. Hell, by the look on his face I thought he was gonna kill me. Turns out that's just his face. He always looks perpetually put out, like someone rained on his parade. I bet if he started crying _no_ _one_ would be able to really tell the difference cause his face would just look the same and-"

"Jay," Bruce says, but his mouth has quirked upwards.

Jason grins. He loves that he's able to do that.  
"So anyway, he fed me and gave me a lot of this bull about how stealing and crime is bad, but then I told him I hadn't been hurting anyone, and how else was I supposed to pay my rent, y'know? Then he got this real like thoughtful look on his face and he dropped me off at your place cause he said that you were to be trusted. And then he left. Then Alfred was outside to pick me up, and he said that you'd gone on a business trip and you'd only be back by morning. And the rest is history. Cool, huh?"

" _Very_ cool," Bruce says dryly, and Jason is sure that Bruce has picked that tone up from Alfred.

"So how do _you_ know Batman?" Jason asks, taking another pen from his desk and making little doodles of the bat symbol on a notepad that Bruce has lying around.

"I get kidnapped a lot. He rescues me." Bruce says, frowning down at the papers. "Jason, that's not how the bat insignia looks."

Jason peers at his drawing. "Looks okay to _me_ ,"

"No it's more like this," Bruce says, a little notch on his brow as he fixes Jason's drawing. "There."

Jason whistles, impressed. "Oh, yeah. You're pretty good at this."

"I've seen the symbol lots of times."

"When he saves you, you mean?" Jason looks at Bruce, fascinated.

"Yes." Bruce puts his papers away. He's apparently realised that he won't be able to work today, or at least not when Jason's around.

"How many times _have_ you been kidnapped anyway?" Jason asks, shifting so that he can sit where the papers were.

Bruce taps Jason's knee, "Get off my desk. Once or twice by all the rogues, at least. The billionaire life is a tough one."

Jason narrows his eyes at Bruce, "Did you make a _joke_? Is that a thing that really happened?"

Bruce rubs at his temples. "Are you done," he says.

Jason shakes his head. "What's a rogue?"

"Batman's collection of villains. The ones that keep breaking out of Arkham."

"So who have you been kidnapped by so far?"

Bruce leans back in his chair, pretending to look contemplative. "Well, there's Poison Ivy," he says.

Jason grins, "Oh hey! I know her! She gave me a flower once, in crime alley, and told me that I was just a meat sack in the grand scheme of things. And then she said some stuff about plants taking over the world."

Bruce frowns, "I'm sure she's a very nice, environmentally conscious young lady when she's not trying out a world domination scheme."

Jason grins again, "Okay, who else?"

"I suppose the time I was taken hostage by the Riddler would be worthy of a mention."

Jason giggles.

Bruce stares at him. "What was that."

"What? The _Riddler_? You have to admit, these guys sound like Disney villains." He says, laughing a little.

Bruce tilts his head, looking at Jason appraisingly. "And I also got kidnapped by the Ventriloquist."

Jason giggles again.

"Kite man."

Jason laughs.

"Condiment king," Bruce is watching him laugh, a small smile spreading across his face.

Jason shakes his head, his eyes watering. "This can't be real."

"Sterling Silversmith," Bruce continues, "his gimmick is that he only steals silver."

Jason covers his face, gasping, "Bruce, stop."

"Polka dot man."

"Please," Jason says, his shoulders shaking. "You got kidnapped by a guy called _polka dot man_?"

"The polka dots on his costume can transform into guns." Bruce says, grimly, "He is to be taken very seriously, Jason."

Jason clutches at his belly, laughing so hard that his face hurts. "Bruce," he gasps out, "you couldn't even throw a punch at a _polka dot_?"

Bruce smiles wanly, "Apparently not."

Jason shakes his head, still smiling, "Looks like I'll have to protect _you_."

Bruce looks at him, and Jason credits himself for knowing Bruce well enough by now to be able to recognise the flicker of warmth in his voice, "Looks like," 

"So Batman must be a _really_ good guy, huh? If he rescues you all the time?"

Bruce taps his pen against the desk thoughtfully. He looks like he's somewhere far away. "Yes, I think so," a pause, "I _hope_ so."

They sit in silence, and Jason stops laughing after a while, still swinging his feet from the desk periodically. Bruce is still looking at him; he looks like he wants to say something.

"Bruce?"

"Hmm," Bruce says, absentmindedly.

"You can stop messing with me now." Jason tells him, casually.

Bruce frowns, "What?"

"I _know_ you're Batman." Jason says, rolling his eyes.

Bruce goes still. "What," He repeats.

Jason exhales noisily. "Stop it, Bruce. I figured it out last week, when you didn't come home for dinner. Alfred told me you'd gone to the penthouse with a girl called Lucy, but I knew you hadn't, cause there _isn't_ a Lucy in PR, there's only one from the R &D department, and _she's_ been married for six years to _Gina_ , who works in marketing. So you can see how _that_ doesn't add up."

Bruce blinks. "What," he says again, rather eloquently.

"Remember that time I went to your office for the bring your kid to work thing? I made a few friends."

Bruce rubs at his eyes, "I can tell," he pauses, "I'm not Batman."

Jason rolls his eyes again. "Come _on_ , Bruce. I live with you. You're _never_ here at night. You two have the _same_ goddamn _chin_ -"

"Language."

" _Yeah_ , _yeah_. And I've _heard_ your voice before you have coffee in the morning. You sound like the secret love child of a lawn mower and a shredder. That's Batman's voice."

"Thanks," Bruce says, dryly. "Look, this whole theory is ridiculous."

"It would have been, if I hadn't found the freaking _batcave_."

Bruce puts his head in his hands. "You found _what_?"

"You _hate_ grandfather clocks. I know cause you secretly made a face at the Kanes' clock when we went to see them for Hanukkah."

"It was overlarge and gaudy."

"Ours is larger and gaudier! Look, the only reason you'd keep that thing around, would be to hide an entryway."

Bruce says nothing for a long time. Then he shrugs. "Okay."

Jason stares. " _Okay_? Just like that?"

"It was just a matter of time before you found out anyway. Or I'd have to tell you eventually. What if I had to go off-world, and you tried to call me? It's hard to get cell signal in the methane ocean planet of Hyrakius."

Jason shakes his head. Off-world. Jason's never even been outside of Gotham. "So Alfred knows, and who else?"

"Dick. Barbara. The Justice league knows my identity."

Dick must have been Robin, then. And Barbara was batgirl. She probably still is. Suddenly Jason's eyes go wide. "You know who _Superman_ is?"

Bruce chuckles, "Jay, Superman is my best friend."

Jason sits for a while, in an amazed silence. Imagine being best friends with Superman. And Wonder Woman!

Bruce frowns. "Lucy from... _PR_?"

Jason laughs, "Yeah. I think Alfred likes making up scenarios where you settle down with a nice, homely woman. He gave her a pretty intricate backstory. She's from Wichita, and she has five dogs. That's also how I knew he was lying. You _hate_ dogs."

Bruce clears his throat, still frowning. "I don't hate dogs. We had one, Dick and I. His name was Ace."

"And where's Ace _today_?"

"Oh, he's in a farm with all the other happy dogs. He runs all day in the sun-" Bruce cuts himself off with a look from Jason.  
"He took a batarang to the tail one day, and I decided that keeping him far from here would be best for everyone's emotional and physical health. Don't tell Dick."

Jason looks smug. "I know you so well," he says, and Bruce ruffles his hair, his eyes looking warm and fond in the sunlight filtering through the windows of the study.

**_____________________**

  
Joe Dominguez grins at the flames.  
  
He puts away the remaining packs of powder carefully. He's aching for a long shower, and maybe a nice, cold beer. The Boss is going to be happy. Hell, he might even give him a raise.

The small residential building that operates as the headquarters of the human trafficking ring that the Falcone crime family runs burns before his eyes.

Joe grins again. All in a good day's work. He knows this may be the start of a gang war, but what the hell does it matter to him? He'd been a drug pusher earlier, and done his job so well, that the Boss himself (the _Boss himself_ , he likes telling people that) had asked him to work specially with this new bomb material. _'Delicate granular explosive_ ' he'd called it. ' _Military grade_ '. Well, whatever. Bomb's a bomb. How hard could it _be_ , right?

That was before he almost got his hand _blown off_ the first time the Boss sent him to blow up a building. He learned to be careful with it after that.  
This powder shit was _nasty_. It was unpredictable, either blowing up too quick, or not blowing up at all. Reacted badly to moisture, to pretty much anything. Touch it, drop it, shake it, it blows up in your face. Literally.  
But when it did work perfectly, holy _shit_. It's _beautiful_ , how fucking strong it is. How it blows concrete and iron rods and granite into _pulp_ , like it's nothing more than a kid's plastic dollhouse. He's got real good at using it too, and this is his sixth time with it. It's becoming a favourite of his. There's just something so amazing about watching things burn. Watching them crumble and melt and puddle into ash, watching them crumble into heaps of dirt.

Besides, he _hates_ those trafficking rings. He's heard from some of the other guys that Falcone sells the girls when they're barely outta high school. Some when they're _fifteen_. He shudders, thinking about Jenny. Sick fucks. At least he has some _morals_. In a mean world like this, you _need_ morals. That's what he tells Jenny all the time. Sure, he sells drugs sometimes, but that's only pot. Occasionally, it's cheap crack. And he _never_ sells product to the kids. And he goes to church _every_ Sunday, with Jenny. He _does_ have morals.

He shoulders his bag, and pulls his cap lower, covering his face as best he can. Then he starts making his way back to the truck, thinking about that frosted beer. Jenny's at her mom's place today, so maybe he can head to the bar real quick, throw one back with the guys-

A hand clamps down on his throat, and shoves him up against the alley wall, _hard_. Joe _almost_ drops his bag, and the very fact that he almost does, makes him want to piss his pants.

"I wouldn't make a sound, if it were me. Falcone's men are arriving at the scene right now, and if they find you, they _will_ put you in the ground." The Batman growls out, his eyes flat and white, hidden by the lenses of his cowl.

"Fuck you," Joe gasps, his hands clenched around his bag. If it drops. . .

Batman's grip around his throat tightens fractionally, and Joe _can't breathe_.

"Give me the bag," Batman says, his voice dark. Joe looks around frantically, but there's no one here, only the damp alley and slick stone.

"What if," Joe gasps, his throat feeling too tight, "what if I- I say no?"

Batman smiles, actually _smiles_ , and if Joe didn't piss his pants earlier, he's definitely going to, right now. He releases his grip on Joe's throat, and Joe slides down to the ground, clutching at his throat. Batman bends to his level.

"Give me the bag," he says again, and with barely a flick of his wrist, he breaks two of Joe's fingers.

Joe _howls_ , tears in his eyes, his face flushed. His hand is white-hot, burning and pulsing with _agony_. He stares at his mangled hand in disbelief. The pain is so _acute_ , so _intense_ , that he can only sob softly.

"Give me the bag," Batman repeats, and Joe lets him take it, holding his throbbing hand in his lap. He can hear Batman rifling through it, in the haze of his pain.

"Be careful, you _fuck_ ," he hisses painfully through his teeth, "It's packed with explosives. You'll blow us _both_ up."

Batman kicks him hard in the stomach, and he doubles up in a pain so bad that he almost vomits.

"Be quiet." Batman says, sounding just as calm as before.

Joe just lies there, feeling the cool ground on the side of his face. Is this how he's gonna die? In some dark alley, with blood pooling out from his side?

About a minute later, Batman stops looking through his bag, and pulls Joe up to his feet again. It sends a sharp spike of pain up to his midsection. "I think you broke my ribs," he gasps, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Shut up," Batman says, holding him against the wall with one hand. "Who's your supplier?" He asks, putting a small pouch of the powder into his belt.

"I don't know," Joe lies, and Batman breaks another finger.

"Jesus _Christ_!" He shouts, and his eyes start watering again. " _Please_ ," he gasps, "I don't know _anything_."

Batman tilts his head, almost like he's curious. "You have a twelve year old daughter, Jennifer Dominguez." He says.

Joe starts shaking his head. His blood has run cold. He gasps,"Not her, _please_. Please you have to understand, not her."

Batman continues, almost like he hasn't heard Joe, "How would she feel, if she was told that her father was found murdered in an alley, two kilos of a military grade batch of a highly volatile and illegal ammonium nitrate based explosive in his bag?"

Joe is still shaking his head, like some kind of a dumb wind-up toy. The alley behind them is as empty as ever. No one is coming to help.

"Who's your supplier, Joe?" Batman asks, almost quietly.

Joe is silent, his lower lip quivering. Batman draws his fist back, and punches Joe's stomach again, right where his ribs have broken. The world goes back for a second. Joe doesn't want to look down, but he thinks he may have a compounded fracture.

"Doug Nolan," he whispers, fighting to stay conscious, "his name's Doug Nolan. He works out of Old Gotham, in an old building near the docks. Maroni, my boss, sends me there to collect the packages. Please," he says, spitting out blood, "please leave Jenny out of this. She's just a kid."

His last memory before he blacks out is Batman grappling out of the alley, his gauntleted hand dripping, sticky and red.

___________

Fifty feet up and sixteen feet west of the now unconscious Joe Dominguez, Tim Drake puts his camera down with shaking fingers.

He sits back down on the concrete surface of the rooftop, and frowns. It occurs to him that he almost saw a man get killed today. He stares at the man, a small pool of inky black slowly spreading across his shirt. He realises painfully late that he should call 911.

He fumbles with his phone, and informs the operator that there's a injured man on the corner of Chester and Eighth, and no, he does not want to file any police reports, but the paramedics should come as soon as possible. He hangs up before they can ask him his name, and goes back down the fire escape.

He'd left his bike chained to a stand in the corner of a street a few blocks away, and he tries to walk there as fast as possible, constantly looking over his shoulder. In all his years of photographing Batman, he's never once been afraid of him. Sure, Batman beats up bad guys all the time, but not like this. Never like this. It was always one punch, and the guy would go down. Robin would grin, and Batman would bark an order at him, and soon they'd be gone. A few minutes later, the bat symbol would shine in the sky again, and they'd be somewhere else, punching some other guy. Tim knew, because he was always there with them, only a rooftop or an alley away, photographing, documenting, watching constantly.

This was different. Batman had been prolonging the man's pain. It was like there was an _anger_ deep in his bones. Tim could almost _feel_ its intensity.

Once, in the summer of his second grade, Tim had broken his wrist while running down the stairs. His nanny at the time, (it was _always_ his nanny, never his mother) had sat him down on their kitchen counter, popped some sugar in his mouth, and asked where it hurt. Tim couldn't do much more than bawl, tears and snot flowing down his face, his cheeks flushed red. So his nanny had resorted to pressing down on certain spots on his arms. When she touched his wrist, he cried the hardest, and she knew he'd been hurt there. Two hours and a hospital trip later, he was fine again, more or less, woozy on painkillers, and a cast on his arm. His parents who had been hiking through the forested hills of Bavaria at the time, hadn't even found out.

He saw Batman do this today, but not remotely in the way his nanny had. He had pressed where it hurt most. A punch to the ribs, which were already broken. Another fracture to a hand that was already mangled. A threat to a beloved daughter. Pressing where it hurt most, until the man cried loudest.

Tim reaches the bike stand, and unlocks the chain. He gets on his bike, and starts cycling home. It's a long way back to the Drake mansion, but it's a journey he's been making every night for the last three years, so he doesn't mind. One of the wheels of the cycle is a little loose, and squeaks with every turn. Tim finds himself flinching with every creaking sound the metal makes. For the first time, it's not thugs or addicts he's afraid of. It's the man who has started hunting them down, seemingly for sport.

Where is this cruelty coming from? This anger? Tim thinks he's figured it out, more or less.

Jason Todd died of mysterious circumstances two weeks ago, and today Batman came out on patrol without Robin.

At home, he switches on the lights, and makes himself a cup of coffee. Walks through the empty house, thinking hard. He can't sleep now, especially not after what he saw. Instead, he goes upstairs, to the third floor. He walks to the room at the end of the hall. His room. It offers him an uninterrupted view of Wayne manor, which is why he chose it.

On his way, he absentmindedly brushes his fingers against the doorknobs of all the other empty rooms. The guest room, the library, his parents' room, his mom's sitting room, all empty. Their insides are a gaping wound, their walls cold and uninviting. He has never liked living here, at least, not after his parents started going away. And now, they won't be back.

Inside his room, he sets his camera and his bag down carefully, and sips his coffee. It's hot enough to scald his tongue. He stands near the window, and waits. Sure enough, in a few minutes, the light in Bruce Wayne's room switches on. Batman has finished patrol.

He wonders if anyone else knows. Anyone apart from him. Batman, Bruce Wayne, and a strange but obvious dichotomy.

The light in Bruce Wayne's room switches off again, and Tim Drake makes a promise to himself.

 _Tomorrow_ , he thinks. Tomorrow, he's going to go to Bruce Wayne, and tell him that he knows _everything_. Tomorrow he's going to tell him that he should take Tim on as Robin.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There was going to be much more Tim in this chapter, but it got very big, so I shifted it to the next.  
> However, here is a [ shorter story ](http://lemonadegarden.tumblr.com/post/155803857583/the-photographer) I wrote about him on my Tumblr. A lot of the same idea is discussed here, I guess. Is it really ripping off, when you're ripping off yourself? (This is shameless self-promo btw haha)
> 
> Leave a comment! Feedback is always great to receive.


	3. Watching and Wishing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tim gets a backstory.

Some times it feels like all Tim does, is watch.

He watches Dick Grayson's parents hurtle to their deaths. He watches his parents leave him alone again and again and _again_. He watches Batman and Robin punch their way through the heart of Gotham, destroying the delicate veins and capillaries of crime, crushing drug cartels and trafficking rings. He watches Batman break his back, his legs, his arms, and he watches him get back up again. He watches each Robin come, and in time, he watches them go.

Wayne manor and his house share a common wall. It's ten feet high, with hedges on either side, but if he's high enough, like in his bedroom, he can see over it, and into their house.He watches. That's all he does.

He's tired of watching. He wants to _do_.

But it's an old habit- one that's ingrained to his system, and so the next day, the day after Batman nearly kills Joe Dominguez, he watches out of his window as Bruce Wayne goes to his parent's graves.

Bruce sits there for a long time, still and unspeaking. Then, after what feel like an age, he presses the flat of his palm- just the barest inch of it, to his mother's gravestone.

Then he gets up, and goes back into his house.

So Tim doesn't go to Bruce Wayne that day. He doesn't speak to him about Robin. About how Batman needs a Robin. Because he's a coward. And an idiot. But a coward and an idiot with some _hope_. Maybe Bruce Wayne can _change_ again.  
Maybe this hellish incident with too much anger and _way_ too much blood was a one-time thing.

Tim sighs, and hopes for the best. He watches, because that's all he does.

It's _not_ a one-time thing.

With every day, there are increasing reports and articles about how brutal the Batman is becoming. He's torturing people. Maiming them. Punching them hard enough to put them in comas. But he hasn't killed. Not yet.

Tim still doesn't go to the manor. Everyday he stares at it. It's right there. _He's_ right there. What is he waiting for?

Tim's tired of watching, but he finds that he's too scared to do much else.

**____________________**

Tim is not sure when it first starts- his obsession with Batman and Robin. The adrenaline rush he gets when he sneaks out at night, and takes pictures. The secret high he gets from clicking photos and saving them, tucking them under his mattress in secret, spreading them out onto his bed when no one is home. _Batman_. _Robin_. Words he whispers to himself when no one is listening. The thrill of the chase, of the hunt.

Maybe it starts when he sees them for the first time, barely more than a blur, darting across the roofs when he and his parents make a trip into the city. Gotham in itself is a beautiful, crazy, jumbled up pile of criss-crossing roads and streets. Buses and cars and trucks swerving through lanes, pedestrians giving them the finger angrily. A man plays a guitar on a sidewalk, obviously very drunk. A girl chewing gum tries to steal his mom's purse. Large skyscrapers and shorter, squat-looking hovels in the same blocks.  
His father calls it bad town planning, and says a lot of stuff about corrupt contractors and negligent administration, but Tim's never seen anything like it. It's like the city has its own personality, its own presence.  
And suddenly, there they are. Wearing masks and Kevlar and looking like they could take on _anything_. Grappling up and down rooftops faster than Tim can blink.

Batman passes them from overhead, running over rooftops. Robin gives him ground support, leaping lithely over a hobo who's passed out.

"Crazy men running around in costumes won't change anything," his father says, frowning from under his mustache, "Crime can't be punched away."

But Tim only stares, awed. The citizens of Gotham continue walking around like nothing has happened. The drunk guitar player belts out a few more chords. The girl chewing gum tries to stick her hand in a man's pocket. Buses and cars continue to swerve and speed. Like they see Batman and Robin _all the time._  
Tim watches them until they are nothing more than small figures in the distance. He is eight years old.

Maybe it happens when he first finds his dad's old camera, lying in a dusty corner of the closet in the master bedroom. He runs his hands over the shutter, the lens, the screen, staring at it. He is ten years old.

Maybe it starts when he climbs that first rooftop, and takes those first pictures. They aren't very good- Batman and Robin are moving too fast, and Tim's inexperienced hands are not very good with the camera yet. But it's a start. Later that night he goes home and looks through the blurry photos for hours. The pictures almost seem to glow in the darkness of his room. He is eleven years old.

Maybe, and this in Tim's head is the most likely cause, it all starts when his parents take him to a circus. He is only four years old.

The story goes like this: Tim is a quiet child. Unnaturally quiet. He won't cry, he won't talk, he won't play. He doesn't seem to understand basic questions. All the child psychiatrists his parents go to tell them that according to their tests, Tim is very smart. Above average. That some kids take a while to start speaking regularly, and that's okay. In the meantime, they should constantly stimulate his brain. Take him to new places. Show him new things. So they take Tim to a circus.

It's a disaster.

Tim _hates_ it. He cries and cries, loud enough that people turn around from their seats to see what's going on. His mother sinks lower down her seat. The show is about to start, but he shows no signs of stopping. Finally his father picks him up, and in a burst of exasperation, asks him, "Timmy, what do you _want_?"

Tim keeps crying. "Home," he sobs, "I wanna go _home_."

"Hi!" says a cheery voice, "you wanna see our elephant?"

Tim stops sobbing, confused. "Elephant?"

A boy grins broadly at him, hands on his hips. "Sure, we have an elephant, and a lion too. Wanna see? I'm Dick, but the way," he adds, almost as an afterthought.

"Dick, I'm afraid the show's about to start and-," his father starts, but Dick shakes his head, still grinning.

"Oh no, they won't start till seven. We still have time. Elephant?" He says, looking at Tim.

Something about his expression makes Tim feel embarrassed. He feels like such a baby, suddenly. Did he really just start crying in front of _everyone_? Dick looks so in control, so perfect. So--what's that word his mother uses? So _sociable_.

"Elephant," he agrees, rubbing the last of his tears from his eyes.

Dick takes Tim to the menagerie, and they see the elephant, the lion (who's actually pretty old and quiet,) the horses, and an assortment of other animals. Dick talks the whole time, and Tim walks by his side, holding his hand in grateful silence. It's better than being in the crowded circus stands, anyway. It's not that he's a _freak_ or anything, it's just that sometimes he just doesn't like doing new things. Or going to new places. Mostly he just likes staying at home.

But Dick makes it all look so _simple_. He says he's a trapeze artist. The youngest in the circus. He talks about all the places he's been to with the circus. Big cities and small towns, farm counties and factory towns, Vegas and Star city, Michigan and Central city, Metropolis and Montana, name it, and he's been there.

"Isn't it exhausting?" Tim asks, "going somewhere all the time? And doing the acrobat thing? Don't you get scared you'll fall and break your neck?"

His parents look at each other. It's the most Tim has said in the longest time. But Tim doesn't notice, looking up at Dick with wide eyes. Some days, he's too scared to even get out of his room. How does Dick do _this_?

Dick squints, looking thoughtful. "Well, the first time I tried it I guess I was pretty scared, but then it got better. You just, I don't know. You just have to push through the fear, I guess."

As they reach the end of the tour, Dick grins again, a quick flash of white teeth against his tanned skin. "Wanna take a picture?"

They take a picture, Tim sitting on his lap, both of them smiling. Jack takes it with the same camera that Tim will find one day, when he is ten.

"Gotta go!" Dick says, getting up and ruffling Tim's hair, "my act is the first one." And then he's gone. Tim stares after him.

Before they get back to their seats, they meet Bruce Wayne, their neighbour. He's here on a date, with a blonde woman with a nice smile. He introduces her as Chelsea. Chelsea likes the circus, and Bruce likes Chelsea, so here they are, he explains laughingly.

"Hello, Bruce," his father says, shaking his hand. Bruce smiles at them. It's funny, the smile seems flat somehow. It doesn't reach all the way up to his eyes. Tim looks around to see if anyone else notices, but no one does.

"Jack," Bruce says, an arm around his date, often travelling much lower than her waist, "it's good to see you." He looks at Tim and his mother, "and. . ." he trails off. He's forgotten their names.

His mother's smile becomes rather fixed looking. "Janet. We met last month, at the Gotham hearts charity ga-"

"You know my mom's name. You remember it," Tim says, bluntly, "so why are you lying?"

"Tim!" Janet hisses, looking at him disapprovingly, "Mr. Wayne, I'm _so_ sorry, he's just a little different-"

But Bruce Wayne is looking at Tim oddly. Almost as if he's seeing him in a new light. "No," he says, "I'd forgotten it. I'm terribly sorry, but I can't seem to remember anything these days. I'm probably getting old."

"You're twenty-six, Brucie," the blonde says, laughing.

All the while, he's looking at Tim with a spark in his eye. _Play along with me_ , his eyes are saying. _We're smarter than them. We can see what the others can't. Play along._

Tim nods, and Bruce smiles again. This time it reaches his eyes, which glint with something secret.  
"Good to see you," he says, and he and his date go off to take their seats.

His father looks at his mother. "What an ass," he says.

  
The act starts off well, with the ringmaster announcing everyone's names, and explaining that the flying Graysons will be performing their act for the first time with their son, and without safety nets. The Graysons come onto the stage, bow to everyone, and go up to the ropes. Dick gets off the stage, performing a quadruple somersault on the way. The crowd gasps and claps. Dick grins. His part will come later, according to the booklet they've been given.

Tim cranes his neck to see the Graysons make their way to the top of the pole, where a tightwire is suspended by two hooks. It's very high up. Tim frowns.  
"That rope doesn't look right," he says to his mother.

"Hmm?" His mother says, her attention focused on the stage in front of them.

Across the stands, he can see Bruce Wayne getting to his feet, a frown on his face.  
_We're smarter than them_ , he had said. _We can see what the others can't_.

"The rope," Tim says again, "it doesn't look right."

But it's already too late. The crowd begins to gasp, and then scream, as the Graysons fall to their death. No safety nets, the ringmaster had said. Their heads make a sickening thunk as they hit the floor, and Tim doesn't need to look at them to know that they are dead. His mom is covering her mouth, horrified.

"Fuck," his dad whispers.

Everyone is still for a moment, like they don't know what to do. Like a billion particles in suspended animation.

Then Dick Grayson peels out of the wings of the stage, and runs up to his parent's bodies, shaking their shoulders. " _Mom_ ," he whispers, sobbing, "dad, _wake up_."

They don't wake up. How can they, when Tim can see parts of their brains trickling down the stage?

Everyone is silent, watching in frozen horror. Dick shakes their shoulders again, his crying becoming ugly. His tragedy unfolding on a stage, being observed by hundreds of people, unable to move.

That is, except Bruce Wayne. Tim sees him stumble to the side of the tent, where he is sick all over his shoes. His face is white as a sheet, like he's seeing a ghost.

Maybe he is.

"Is he _drunk_?" someone whispers, from behind Tim.

His action seems to stir everyone out of their stupors, and the crowd starts screaming and shouting again. Panicked hoards start making their way to the exit. Tim's parents get to their feet. His father picks him up, and his mother follows, both of them half-jogging out of the place.

The last thing Tim sees before he leaves, is Bruce Wayne wiping his mouth, his face grim but determined, and making his way through the running people, towards the stage. Towards Dick.

  
The next day, papers announce that Bruce Wayne sat in the police station with the boy whose parents died of freak accident, all day long.

A week later, the tabloids scream the headlines. "GOTHAM'S OWN BRUCE WAYNE ADOPTS TWELVE YEAR OLD; PR STUNT??"

But Tim knows it's not a publicity stunt. You can fake smiles, and fake forgetting people's names. You can fake being a different person.  
You _can't_ fake having a panic attack and puking all over your shoes when you see a boy's parents die, just as yours did years ago, and forgetting all about your date and sitting in a crowded police precinct with a twelve year old boy you barely know. You can't fake that.

Six months later, Batman gets a Robin. No one connects those two incidents together. Not even Tim. Not yet.

Tim watches from his window occasionally, as Dick Grayson laughs again, like he did when he first met Tim, playing with a dog in the manor grounds. Bruce comes to fetch them for dinner, a smile on his face when he sees Dick wrestling with the dog. A _family._  

Tim feels strangely embarrassed, like he's been caught encroaching on a private moment, and turns away from the window. His own family has started going on several trips abroad as of late, leaving him with his nanny for longer and longer periods of time. He stares at a spot on the wall, and tries to remember the smell of his mother's perfume.

Four years pass, and Dick Grayson grows up and goes off to college. Robin disappears.  
Tim is nine, and one day, he sees another boy, one with a crooked smile and angry eyes, walking around the grounds. He's accompanied by Bruce, who's saying something to him. Tim watches as the boy throws his head back and laughs, feeling oddly envious. His own parents are in Argentina currently, and his mom calls him once a week. If she remembers to.

The boy's name is Jason Todd, and the newspapers announce that he's Bruce Wayne's new ward. Jason Todd is not as well liked by the media as Dick Grayson was , and is often seen skipping charity galas and parties at the manor in favour for a quiet smoke outside, in the manor grounds.

Tim watches out of his window as Bruce Wayne joins him one day in sneaking out of the party, both of them grinning guiltily. Bruce knocks the cigarette out of Jason's hand, and Jason only scowls halfheartedly.

With his parents constantly away on trips, Tim starts exploring his own house. While he's mostly grown out of the fear of new places by now, a part of him still likes small places, tucked away and secret. He starts hiding in cupboards and underneath beds. He gets so good at it that his nannies can't always find him. They have a lot of fun though, playing elaborate games of hide and seek. He never has a chance to get too attached, though. Each nanny leaves after a few months, for some reason or the other. Tim can understand; he hates this beautiful, empty house too.

Two months after his tenth birthday he finds the camera in a cupboard that he was hiding in. He takes a picture of his nanny, Gabriella. She smiles, her reddish lipstick a splotch on the blurry picture.

More time passes. He gets a little better at taking pictures. A new Robin is sighted one day, fighting alongside Batman. Tim watches footage of them on TV, his eyes glued to the screen.

Soon, it's a new year, and Tim turns eleven. Batman and Robin continue to fight crime. Tim discovers coffee. His parents go to Myanmar. Harvey Dent is elected mayor. Gabriella resigns. Life goes on.

On a cold April night, Tim climbs up high on a rooftop, feeling the crisp air around him. His nanny is at home, asleep. Lately he's been getting better at tricking them. He takes the first picture. Robin is almost within fifteen feet of him.

Tim stares at the skyline. It's like a precious gift has been given to him, one that he won't ever lose. He finds himself smiling.He comes back the next day. And the next. And the next.

One day, Nightwing accompanies them on patrol, and does a quadruple somersault. Tim puts his camera down abruptly, and suddenly he has understood _everything_.

   
Another year passes, and Tim turns twelve. Harvey Dent is no longer mayor, after an unfortunate incident involving the loss of half of his face. He resides in Arkham now.  
Robin starts becoming more violent. Jason Todd and Bruce Wayne start having fights. 

Tim watches out of his window and into theirs one day, as Jason yells at Bruce, shoving at his chest. Bruce only stands there, taking it, his face unreadable. Some days it's so bad that they don't talk at all. Tim watches as Robin stops appearing on patrol as much, probably getting benched more often.

Tim only watches, and takes more pictures. He follows them everywhere, capturing everything. Jason's smile as he flirts with prostitutes and hookers, who only laugh and swat him away. Bruce's quick hands as he deflects a hit from killer Croc. The soul of Gotham, captured on strips of technicolor film.

That summer, they have a run-in with the Joker. Bruce barely gets out of it alive, and Tim can do nothing but watch as Jason half-drags and half-carries Bruce's bleeding body back to the batmobile. Bruce is so still it's like he's dead. Tim can see Jason crying, his panicked tears leaking out from under the domino mask. "Wake up," Jason says, an older memory being dredged up from Tim's head, "Why won't you _wake up_?"

Sometimes Tim really wishes he could do more than watch.

But he's Batman, so sure enough, in two months' time he's back on patrol, Robin at his side. Bruce Wayne tells the newspapers that he was in a skiing accident, and everything goes back to normal.

Until it doesn't.

Three months before his thirteenth birthday, at around two in the night, Tim is sitting in his room, catching up on old assignments from school when he hears a loud noise. An explosion in the far side of town.

Explosions in Gotham are common enough. What more can be expected from a city chock full of costumed supervillains? But this one seizes Tim's chest in a sudden panic. Something is _very_ wrong. Tim pulls back his curtains to look at Wayne manor. It looks the same as it always does. All the lights are switched off at night, and the house itself is shrouded in silence.

But Tim can feel it in his bones. Bad things have happened. He watches the site of the explosion until the last flames flicker out, a dying fire in the weak light of dawn.

The funeral and last rites of Jason Todd are held in a public cemetery six days later. Batman is not seen for another week.

On the day of the funeral, he sees Bruce Wayne and his butler get into a car and drive to the cemetery. He stares at their black suits. He watches.

Tim feels like he's lost a family he never even _had_.

**__________________**

  
A week of brutality and torture passes, and Tim _still_ does nothing. Every morning he tells himself to go over to the manor and ring the doorbell, but he just can't. He just _can't_ do it.

This kind of fear of going out and doing things hasn't struck him this hard since he was _four_.

He watches from a safe distance as Batman systematically decimates the criminal underworld, and feels like a selfish coward for it.

Until one day, when a man turns up dead in Old Gotham.

His name is Douglas J. Nolan, a dealer in illegal explosives. Newspapers report that he's been shot in the head.

Shot in the _head_ , like Martha Wayne was.

Tim shuts his eyes, and hates that he let it go on for so long. It's morning, and he walks out of his house, holding a sheaf of the photos and newspaper clippings that he's accumulated over the years. They might help his explanation a bit. He walks down his driveway, and up theirs. He climbs the marble steps leading to the broad doorway.

 _Push the fear out of the way_ , Dick Grayson had said to him all those years ago.

He takes a deep breath, and knocks on the door.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was one of the main reasons I decided to have Jason's death occur in Gotham, and not Ethiopia. This way, Tim could be a passive observer, and truly know what Batman went through.
> 
> Remember that time when I said this is going to be a short story? Ugh. Everything I write becomes long and convoluted. This Tim backstory thing was supposed to be like 2 paragraphs. Oops.  
> Listen, I'll try to keep it under ten chapters. 'Try' being the operative term here.
> 
> Leave a comment because I'm a needy child that needs constant validation ;)


	4. The Docks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some angst, then some plot, then some more angst because why not.

Bruce reaches the batcave well after three in the night. Alfred is standing near the medbay, a plate of sandwiches in his hands.

A boy stares at him from where he's sitting on the workstation, near the computers, his legs dangling off of it in that familiar way. Bruce ignores him, and takes his cowl off.

"Alfred," he says, "I found a lead. Doug Nolan. Deals in explosives. More specifically, the explosive I found in the warehouse. I'm running his name through the interface now."

But Alfred is only looking at the copious amounts of blood on his gauntlets.

Bruce sits at the computers, and runs the name. The boy comes closer, peering over his shoulder. The computer comes back with twenty three different results, and Bruce narrows them down by address and vocation. One result.

"Douglas J. Nolan," he reads, "high school dropout. He's got a record. Two counts of grand larceny. Forty-two. No kids. An ex-wife living in Seattle. Lives off of Canerra road, Old Gotham. Near the docks. He probably gets a new shipment of the explosive every once in a while from there. Listed here as ' _entrepreneur_ ', he runs a car parts shop. Do you think his business is a front?" He asks, not looking up from the screen.

If Alfred has a problem with his methods, he can speak up about them.

"Possibly," Alfred says, finally, and Bruce lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding. "Is he a chemist?"

"No," Bruce says, shaking his head. "I don't think he's manufacturing it. He's just the distributor."

Alfred gives a stiff nod, and sets down the plate next to Bruce, on the workstation. "Master Bruce," he says.

"Mm?" Bruce says, going through the file more intently. He should probably pull up results of other distributors in or around Gotham just to double-check with-

"Master _Bruce_ ," Alfred says, his voice sharp as steel. "I have something to say, and I expect you to pay more attention."

"Look, Alfred, I know you think--"

"It's not about that. It's not about any of that. I will wash the blood out of your gloves and your armor, and I will polish the glass of the case containing Master Jason's old suit. I will keep doing those things. I will keep doing them until I am too old or sick to do them any more, no matter the kind of man you are, or will become."

"Then, what," Bruce says, looking pointedly at his keyboard.

"I made a promise to your mother once, when she was still alive. She asked me to take care of you, and make sure you didn't get hurt. Of course, at the time, I'm sure she meant for the duration of her trip to a charity gala that she was visiting, but you see, ever since her death I'm afraid I've taken it quite to heart." Alfred says, lightly. "She loved you so much, you know."

Bruce nods. He's looking at the space bar of the keyboard, his neck frozen in place.

"Now, I know that I've failed terribly,"

"Alfred, you haven't-"

"Hush now, Master Bruce. Let me finish speaking. Now, I know that I've failed terribly, but don't you think I deserve some credit since you haven't been able to kill yourself, try as hard as you might, with this crusade yet?"

"Alfred I-"

"I said _hush_. Perhaps it's not to late to fix things. I _did_ make a promise to your mother, after all. So promise me, Master Bruce, promise me that you'll take care of yourself out there, in the field. Don't get hurt, or else I fear your mother shall be terribly angry once we meet again."

Alfred pats his shoulder, and leaves the room. The sandwiches sit on the plate beside him, steaming gently.

Bruce stays still, looking down.

" _Wow_ ," the boy says, rolling up the sleeves of his red sweatshirt, "that must've been hard to hear, huh?"

Bruce leaves the sandwiches untouched, and heads to the showers.

He starts stripping of parts of his armour, bundling them up in his arms. His gauntlets, the chest plate, the shin guards. He gets into the showers with the armour parts, and adjusts it so that the water pressure is high, beating down onto his shoulders. He looks at the blood leaching out of the fibre for a while. Strings of red swirling down the drain.

None of this blood is his. It feels like his chest has been hollowed out, his insides scooped clean so he can no longer feel anything. So he stares at the drain, letting the water spray on his back until it turns cold.

He can barely hear the boy over the roar of the shower. "You'll have to talk to me eventually,"

Bruce scrubs the gauntlets clean with his hands until there's no more blood on them. He does it for the rest of the armour as well. The water is turning brown, and he can almost smell the iron.

"Are you doing that so Alfred doesn't feel bad?"

Bruce ignores him, and keeps scrubbing. The water trails down his face until it reaches his chin, where it drops off into the pool of brown.

The suit cleaned, he turns the taps off.

"You know, I always thought you got the suit dry cleaned or something. _Can_ you even wash Kevlar?"

Bruce goes back to the computer room, wearing a fresh pair of clothes. He finishes off the sandwiches and shuts down the all the monitors. The boy props himself next to the generators, eyeing the sandwiches wistfully.

"You have to talk, you know." He says again.

Bruce puts the suit and the cowl away, and goes upstairs, to his bedroom. He switches on the lights, and goes to the bathroom to brush his teeth.

"Bruce, you remember that time you took me to the beach for no reason in the middle of a case? And I thought you were being so cool," Jason laughs, standing next to him, "but it turns out that Alfred made you do it? Cause he thought we spent no time together except when we were solving cases? Hey Bruce, I had a mojito there, at the beachside bar when you weren't looking."

Bruce turns the tap off with so much force that the knob snaps in his hand. He stares at it for a second.

"So you _do_ remember," Jason says, sounding pleased. "Well, I'm in your head anyway, so obviously you remember. So I guess you knew about the mojito too, huh? I don't really know where I was going with this."

Bruce goes back out of the bathroom and switches all the lights off. He lies down on the bed. Jason sits on the edge, his legs crossed neatly.

(In the neighbouring mansion, a light switches off as well)

There is brief silence, only punctuated by Jason's breathing.

"Go away," Bruce says finally, staring out into the darkness. On quiet nights like these, he can sometimes hear the bats in the cave below. The flapping of their wings.

"I'm sorry," Jason whispers back, "but this is all you, Bruce."

Bruce looks at Jason's red sweatshirt. The real thing is so old; it must be at the bottom of some box at a Goodwill somewhere. On this Jason though, it looks spotless. Cleaner, in fact, than when Bruce saw it on him for the first time. An eleven year old kid with a tire wrench in an empty alley.

"I must be going crazy," Bruce whispers.

"No," Jason says, looking a little sad,"it's just your PTSD that's been triggered by a sudden traumatic event, resulting in visual hallucinations. I'll probably be gone by tomorrow. But you know all of this, remember? I'm in your head."

Bruce says nothing.

"You should talk to someone. One of those head doctors."

"Psychiatrists." Bruce corrects, his voice sounding hollow to his own ears. He's correcting his dead son from using incorrect terminology for mental health professionals. He really _is_ crazy.

"Yeah, yeah. Same difference. I remember Clark saying something about Hawaii. Sounds great to me. You can pick up chicks and have some fun." Jason says, grinning. "Take Dick surfing."

  
"Please," Bruce says, looking away, "please go away."

He shuts his eyes so he can't see him anymore. There is a long silence, soft and yearning for things long lost.

When he opens his eyes, Jason is gone.

**____________________________**

Bruce gets up at six, and goes down to the batcave for training before breakfast. He has a routine. Warm-ups, then alternating cardio and weights depending on his schedule and his nutrient intake.

Mid way into his warm-ups he notices that Jason is sitting at the workstation, doing Algebra homework.

"Hey Bruce," Jason calls out, showing him his book, "the answer's supposed to be zero, but I got three minus root three. What's wrong?"

"You forgot to square the Tan function," Bruce says, even as his heart is pounding. What the _hell is happening to his mind?_

"Thanks," Jason says, chewing on the back of his pencil absentmindedly. Then Bruce blinks, and he's gone again.

Bruce goes up for breakfast, and Alfred makes him eggs. He finds himself looking for that familiar dark head or the the red sweatshirt on his way to work, and shakes his head when he realises what he's doing. He needs to stop doing this. Stop looking for someone who's dead.

He spends ten hours at WE, talking to his financial advisor and signing papers. His secretary asks if she can go home early. It's her son's birthday. He smiles and says _of course_.

He gets back to the manor and goes down to the cave immediately. He runs the prints that he found on the explosives, and on Jason's body. He's done this hundreds of times before, but finds himself doing it again, for some reason.

Two full sets of prints on the explosives, and one partial on Jason's body. 

The first set of prints on the explosives are Doug Nolan's, confirming the information he'd got from Maroni's runner.

He can't find the person the second set of prints belong to, on any database. Not CIA, not Interpol, not MI6. Nothing. Just as he'd expected.  
The partial that he found on Jason's body comes back the same. The Joker will always cover his tracks. His carefully arranged persona of the agent of chaos, the man without a plan, is just that. A persona. He covers his tracks well. Won't get caught unless he wants to.

Bruce sits back, and stares at the results. For the first time in a while, he feels lost. He's got what he's wanted. A name. A lead. But where will it lead?

A distributor can only tell him the name of his customer and the name of the manufacturer. If the Joker did buy the explosives from Nolan, he'd have sent someone else. Another man working under him, or an acquaintance. Maybe Harley Quinn, but that's a stretch.

Nolan can give him a description at best. He won't know any way to reach the Joker, because that's not how illegal goods dealers operate. They don't ask for names, or phone numbers. Best case scenario, Bruce finds the henchman hired to buy the explosives based on the description that Nolan gives him, only to find his body in a dumpster somewhere with a bullet in his head. The Joker isn't exactly a model employer. Any liability would be taken care of quickly.

Bruce rubs at his eyes, tired from looking at the screen for hours.  
He made a promise. He's not going to break it. If he finds a man in a dumpster with a bullet in his head, he's going to take the bullet out, analyse it, and track down the man who sold it. And he's going to make sure he gets a description of the customer. And the cycle will go on and on until he finds a weak link. The Joker is not a god. He is not perfect. He will make a mistake eventually, and Bruce will be there when he does. And this time Bruce will be the one smiling.  
He's willing to dedicate a lot of time to this case. All of his time.

He goes on a long patrol, hoping to clear his mind. He intercepts two car robberies, and one attempted rape. Watches the rapist writhe as he dislocates the joints in his legs one by one.

 _It's not our place to decide_ , he'd said, so long ago.  
_Fuck_ that. Fuck _all_ of that. If he doesn't start deciding, who else will? The Gotham judicial system? The police? Sure.

How many more children will have to die before someone steps in? How many more women have to be raped?

He watches the man try to crawl away, blood pouring down his legs, and steps down on his knee. Hard. He takes great pleasure in hearing him scream.

He makes sure not to get any blood on the suit this time. He doesn't see Jason again after that, and Bruce tells himself that that's a good thing.

**_____________________________**

  
Almost a week goes by before Bruce can pay a visit to Doug's apartment. He gets caught up in the middle of another gang war; one between Falcone's men and Maroni's. Something about burning up warehouses. No one comes out of it unhurt, and Bruce gets hit square on the jaw before he can even blink. Working with a partner has made him dependant, almost lazy, in his fighting. There was always someone to watch his six, before.

Now, Bruce steels himself for a tough fight. It's a small group, only about twenty men, shooting at each other with their semi-automatics. He can take them, but it'll be tough.

And it is. Someone pins him down, and attempts to stab at his side. The protective layer of Kevlar prevents any direct lacerations, but it still hurts. He grunts and throws the man off, using his momentum to push him against the wall, and knocks his head against the hard concrete. The man slide down to the floor, collapsing in a neat pile.

Bruce takes a deep breath, and turns to face the other nineteen. He's getting too old for this.

Fifteen minutes later, and it's done. Someone managed to break one of his ribs, and there's a cut on his lip from from where a man pushed him through a window. Other than that, he's okay. Twenty unconscious men are scattered around his general vicinity. He's slipping. Six months ago he'd have been able to do this in ten minutes.

He wipes the corner of his bleeding lip with the back of his gauntlet, and limps back to the batmobile.

 

The next two days he has to be in Metropolis for the opening ceremony of a new plant, so he can't go for patrol at all. He meets up with Clark for lunch, and Clark wisely chooses not to ask about his progress, or lack thereof.

On the fourth day, he makes his way to the docks, breaking into Nolan's apartment through the fire escape. As soon as he enters the apartment he realises he's made a mistake. He's too late.

Someone's already been here.

The apartment smells damp, like sea water and wet concrete. He can see a bookshelf has been turned over, the books thrown out. Chairs have been broken, the table has been turned to the side. The small bed's mattresses and pillows have been gutted through, their cotton spooling out like puffs of cloud on the floor. The windows are broken. The flat screen mounted on one wall has its screen cracked.

He makes his way past the kitchen slowly, (the cupboards have been ransacked though randomly, and there's a packet of chips lying on the floor, it's contents stewed across the counters) and turns towards the bathroom.

He can smell the blood even before he sees it.

Doug Nolan's body lies in the bathtub, a gunshot wound in his head.

Bruce steps away, and closes the bathroom door behind him. He'll have to call Gordon. Then he cocks his head. Someone is singing.

He goes to the second bedroom, and before she can speak, he pushes her against the wall, one hand on her throat.

"Hey, Bats!" Harley Quinn says, grinning cloyingly. She's wearing a black minidress with large, bright, red roses on it. She has a bruise on her left cheek that Bruce knows is from a backhand.

"Where is he?" He growls out, his hand tightening on her throat.

"Batsy, the choking doesn't work on people who _like_ it, yanno?" Harley says, her grin only getting wider.

Bruce lets go of her, and she almost falls, tottering on her high heels, " _Hey_! No fair! You shoulda given me some warnin'!"

" _Where_ is he?" He asks again. The anger is sharp, rising like bile in the back of his mouth. She must have been there, that day at the warehouse. She must have seen Jason die.

"Where's _who_ , huh? I ain't enough for ya?" She says, pouting.

"The Joker," he says, "you know where he is."

Harley shrugs, looking around the apartment. "This place is real nifty, huh? I'm thinkin', me n' mistah J, we can buy a place like this, settle down n' have a kid or five, what do ya think?"

" _Harley_ ," he says, in a low warning.

Harley puts her hands up in a gesture of exaggerated complacence. Her nails are painted a bright, electric blue.

"Okay, okay! I'll tell! Mistah J sent me up here to kill that guy, maybe ta trash the place a little, n' then he told me ta stay until ya showed up. N' then ta deliver this letter to ya. Happy now?" She says, taking out a folded piece of paper from the pocket of her minidress."It's a good thing ya got here early, cause Dougie there woulda started ta stink real bad, huh?"

She holds it out to Bruce, who takes it with some degree of wariness.

"What is it?" Bruce asks, examining the edges for Joker venom and explosive putty.

Harley rolls her eyes, and leans against the broken coffee table. "Maybe you'd find out if ya opened it, Bats."

Bruce opens it carefully.

There's no bomb. It's a bit more confusing than that.

"This is a nursery rhyme." He says, looking down at the words on the paper.

Harley beams at him. "Sure _is_ , batsy!" She raises her voice to sing, her face acquiring a dreamlike expression."Hickory Dickory _Dock_ ,  
The mouse ran up the clock.  
The clock struck one,  
The mouse ran down!  
Hickory Dickory Dock!" She finishes, clapping her hands excitedly. It's odd how she retains no trace of her usual accent when singing it.

"What does that mean?" Bruce says, getting angrier, "there's a dead body in the bathtub four feet away from us, and the Joker does _not_ issue riddles for clues. I don't have _time_ for this. Where were the two of you when he sent you here?"

Harley frowns. "You're _fun,_ usually. What's wrong today, bats? You can tell me, I'm a psychiatrist."

"What's _wrong,_ is that this is not a game. Tell me where he was when you last saw him."

" _Ohhh_ ," Harley says, looking like she's come to a conclusion, "is this 'cause your kid died?"

Bruce slams her back against the wall and she flinches, raising her arms to cover her face. "I'm _sorry_ mistah J! I ain't _never_ gonna do it again!"

Bruce sighs. He lets her go again, gently, this time. "Don't talk about Robin ever again." He says, in a quieter voice. He gestures to the only chair in the room that isn't broken or turned to its side. "Sit."

Harley sits obediently, her eyes flickering to the sides nervously. "I didn't do that on purpose, it's just that you looked so _mad_ , 'n sometimes mistah J gets real mad at me. So," she smiles hard enough for it to look like it hurts, "I try ta keep him happy."

"Harley," Bruce says, standing in front of her, "what does the letter mean?"

Harley pokes at him, her smile back on her face, "C'mon! It's easy! _I_ figured it out! And mistah J said that if I can do it, than _anyone_ can!"

Bruce looks back at the letter. "Clocks? The clocktower?" The Gotham Clocktower overlooked a square roughly in the middle of the city.

Harley claps her hands again. " _See_ , ya figured it out. The clocktower. And ya gotta go there at _one_! One in the night. Mistah J asked for you, special!"

"That was too easy. What's the catch."

Harley scoffs, "Why's it gotta be _tough_ , big guy? Like you said, he ain't the Riddler. Does everyone have ta shove party tricks up their butts ta get your attention?"

"When? When do I go?"

Harley grins again. "Oh, you'll _know_ when."

Bruce's grip tightens on the letter. "What's he going to do?"

Harley shakes her head. "I ain't tellin'! Besides, Mistah J didn't tell me everything."

Bruce looks at her. "I'm going to have to take you back to Arkham. If you tell me what the plan is, I could make sure you end up in a women's prison somewhere far from Gotham city."

"Well, women's prison sounds like all _kinds_ of fun," Harley says, winking at him, "but I made a promise to Mistah J. We decided that it was time for me ta go back ta Arkham."

"And who made the decision, Harley?" Bruce says, eyeing the angry purpling bruises peppered on her arms, " _you_ or _him_?"

Harley makes a face. "We _both_ did, kay? Besides, I got friends in Arkham. And mistah J's on the outside, so he'll break me out in _no_ time."

"He could have sent anyone to deliver this message. You wouldn't have had to go back to Arkham. Some part of you knows it's because he-"

"Just _shut up_ , okay?" Harley says, her cheeks flushed. "My puddin', he _loves_ me."

Bruce looks at her for a long time, and Harley fidgets nervously.

"Get up and turn around. I'm going to handcuff you." He says finally.

Relief flashes across her face as Harley skips up and turns around, her arms behind her back. Bruce puts the handcuffs on, and starts leading her out of the apartment, through piles of junk in the vandalised house.

As they pass the bathroom, Harley leans towards it curiously. "What're ya gonna do about _him_?"

Bruce steers her forward. "I'm going to analyse the bullet in his head. Then I'm going to visit you in your cell block every day until you tell me what the Joker's going to do."

"I told ya, I ain't tellin'. Where are ya taking me?"

"Commissioner Gordon."

Harley half-turns to face him, surprised. "Not _Arkham_?"

"No. Regular cell. Blackgate."

Harley grins. "Oooh! I heard Blackgate's got a ping pong table."

"I'm going to try to get you put in WitSec." Bruce says, opening the door so that they can get out. Coming out of the apartment the way he'd entered would prove problematic with the added weight of a full grown woman in handcuffs.

Harley scrunches up her nose. " _WitSec_? Why wouldja do that?"

"You know why."

Harley is quiet. "He loves me, you know. He really does. He just gets angry sometimes is all. _Everyone_ gets mad."

They're out of the apartment, making their way down the stairs. The hallways are empty - everyone is in bed. Bruce is holding one of Harley's arms to make sure she can't run. He says nothing.

They step out of the building, and Harley shivers at the crisp air hitting her face. She looks at him again, her face a picture of open honesty.

"I'm sorry 'bout your boy, bats. I'm sorry he's dead."

Bruce's face is remote under the cowl. He inhales, then exhales. He doesn't say anything. They reach the batmobile.

"I wasn't there, yanno? When it happened? I wasn't in the warehouse. I woulda tried ta stop him if I was."

"Get in." Bruce says, when the doors open automatically.

"He jus' gets real mad sometimes, that's all." Harley whispers again. "Jus' gets real mad."

The bruises on her arms seem to shine in the darkness of the night.

 

**___________________________**

 

By the time Bruce finally gets home, after briefing Gordon about Harley and the body he's found, then digging the bullet out of the man's head and analysing it (no matches. Unmarked) he's exhausted. It's almost nine in the morning when he puts the suit away, changes into a pair of sweats, and walks up from the batcave, ready to go to bed and sleep for at least twelve hours.

He's making his way to the third floor when the doorbell rings. Bruce sighs, stopping where he is. Every muscle in his body aches with exhaustion. He hasn't slept in 48 hours.

It's Alfred's day off.

Shit.

He turns around, and trudges back to the door. Opens it.

There's a kid at the door, holding a stack of newspaper clippings. His eyes are wide with excitement. No, not excitement. Apprehension.

"Yes?" Bruce asks, rubbing at his eyes blearily.

The boy opens his mouth, and closes it again. He looks like he's about twelve.

Bruce runs a hand over his face. He needs a hot shower, and then bed. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I'm-" the boy clears his throat nervously, "I'm Tim Drake, your neighbour."

"Right," Bruce says, nodding. "Jack's son. And Janet's."

Tim looks up at him, his eyes bright. "You _do_ know my mom's name. I _knew_ it."

Bruce frowns. "Why wouldn't I? Look, is there anything you need?"

"I'm here to talk about Jason Todd? Mr. Wayne, I know his death affected you pretty badly and maybe you could just hear what I have to say?"

Bruce shuts his eyes. "I didn't know they made reporters this young," he says quietly.

"No, I can _explain_! Look I've been photographing you both for _ages_." He says, pointing to his pile of papers.

Bruce turns to shut the door. "Please leave, Mr. Drake. Tell your parents that I give them my regards."

"They're dead," Tim says, putting his foot between the door and the door jamb. "My mother is, anyway. I don't know where my dad is. He's kind of, stopped calling."

"I'm sorry to hear that," Bruce says, his tone not changing, "Please move, so I can shut the door."

"You don't understand, Mr. Wayne." Tim says, his expression desperate. "I _know_ you're Batman."

Bruce stops trying to shut the door. "What did you say?"

Tim puts on a face of determination. "You heard me. We need to talk."

Bruce can read a headline in one of the papers that Tim is holding. 'BOY WONDER SHINES AS HE TAKES OUT TWO-FACE!'

It's funny, he doesn't even remember that day.

Bruce stares at Tim. Tim bites his lip, meeting his eyes bravely.

Bruce opens the door wider. "Come in."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry about the late update, I was very busy over the weekend. The next few weeks will be busy for me, but I'll keep updating - just maybe not on Sundays.


	5. Coffee and conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bruce has people in his life with vastly different opinions on black coffee and vastly similar opinions on how he needs to get his shit back together.

Bruce walks up to Selina's fifth floor apartment, keeping his hands away from the grimy railing. One of the landings has some suspicious looking liquid splattered on it. He grimaces, stepping over it. She needs to get a better place than this dump.

 _Not all of us are casual billionaires,_ Bruce, Selina had said to him one day, her head on his chest as they lay on the sofa together, after. They hadn't even been able to make it to her bedroom that time. _Some of us actually have to work to make a living._

Bruce had looked at her, and wondered if she knew how easy it would be for him to transfer money from his bank account to hers, how simple it would be to buy her a penthouse, an estate, a building, anything. It was not like he had any shortage of funds.  
But she'd never let him, was the problem. Even then, she had rolled off of him and frowned when she saw the look in his eyes. _Don't you dare_ , she had said. _Don't even think about it._

Bruce had smirked, _You know, for a thief you're strangely honorable._

 _That's me_ , Selina had said dryly.  _Look, if I wanted any of your money, I'd have stolen it by now._

  
_Like I'd let you_ , he'd said, pulling her back on top of him, and sitting up. And they were too otherwise occupied to talk after that.

He walks up to the door of her flat now, and rings the doorbell. It's almost three in morning. He'd finished patrol just half an hour back, and it had been tough to get Jason to go to bed and then leave the manor without him noticing. Alfred, he's sure, had been aware of him sneaking out. _Sneaking out_ , Bruce contemplates, frowning, sounds like something a teenager would do. He rubs at his eyes tiredly. He's entirely too exhausted to worry about teenage-appropriate locution right now.

The door opens suddenly, and Selina greets him with a frown. "You're _late_." She opens the door wider, to let him in.

"I'm sorry that my job of saving Gotham from Scarecrow's fear toxin got in the way of your boning schedule."

Selina rolls her eyes, walking towards her small kitchenette. " _Bullshit_. You must have wrapped it up by two AM. Crane's too full of himself to not get caught."

Bruce shrugs. What's the point of denying it? "I took Jason to a diner afterwards. He was hungry."

Selina narrows her eyes. She's fiddling around with the coffee maker, and opening and closing cupboards."I knew it. And stop taking him to that place at the corner of Park and 22nd. I heard they haven't passed their last few health and safety inspections." she says, and then in a softer voice, "did either of you get hit?"

By the fear toxin, she means. "It was a close thing. I wouldn't be here now if we had." He says. He sits on her couch, and listens in silence to the sounds of her making coffee. She's talking about something quietly, her voice a warm centre that he relaxes into. He rests his head against the sofa, his muscles aching with relief. At some point, his eyes start to close, and he slides further down into that liquid warmth.

Something shakes his shoulder, and he wakes up with a start. Selina's face is above his, and she's holding out a cup of coffee. "Hey, stop falling asleep on me. I made you some of that disgusting stuff that you like. No cream, no sugar."

Bruce takes the coffee, and scrubs at his face, his aching eyes. "Sorry."

The couch hardly dips when Selina sits down next to him, propping her feet in his lap. One of the straps of her tank slips off her shoulder, and Bruce turns away, deliberately trying to distract himself. He sips the coffee even though it's too hot. He wants to be fully awake for this.  
Selina doesn't seem to notice. "Maybe you should go home. You look like shit." She says, blunt as ever.

"Thanks," he says, taking a sip. It's good. He closes his eyes again, savouring the caffeine.

Selina raises an eyebrow. "Wow, slow down, cowboy. Stop chugging that thing like it's the nectar of the Gods."

Bruce stares at his coffee. "Cowboy?"

Selina grins. "Please? I'll provide the hat and the vest. Now, I'm not saying you need to the accent, but it would definitely be an added bonus."

Bruce gives her a look.

Selina snickers. "What about billionaire playboy, huh? Can you do that one in bed?" She pokes at his bicep teasingly, and Bruce wonders why he keeps sleeping with someone with the mental capacity of a sixth grader.

"How about we do jailer and prisoner," Bruce says, draining off the rest of the coffee, "except instead of the roleplay, I actually get to put you in jail."

"That'd be wonderful, Bruce," Selina says, "if you ever managed to catch me." She gets up and takes Bruce's mug from him, and puts it in the sink. Then she walks towards the bedroom "You coming or not?"

"Yes," Bruce says, "just wait a second." He takes out his wallet, and starts rifling through it.

Selina frowns. "What are you doing?"

"Going through exactly how much money I have in here. Two fifty dollars and three Mastercards. If you take anything, I'll know." He says, tossing the wallet to her.

Selina catches it easily. "You _asshole_ ," she says, grinning again, "if I wanted any money, I'd steal the Mercedes you've parked in the alley twelve metres from my lobby."

"It's a Bentley, but close enough." He says, getting up himself.

"I thought you had a Lamborghini."

"That too."

"You idiot." Selina laughs, "Of course you have three sports cars."

"Six, actually. Seven if you count. . . the one I keep in my basement."

Selina just puts a hand over her face, shaking her head. "Seven. Oh my god. You're crazy."

It's funny how they're just standing at opposite ends of the room from each other, both grinning like idiots. His hands are in his pockets, but they're already itching to do something.

"Hey, Bruce," Selina says, her voice softer now.

"What?"

"Are you going to come here or what?" Selina says, and she looks oddly bashful. It would be adorable, almost, if he hadn't seen her palm a hundred bucks from his wallet three seconds earlier.

Still, he makes his way across the room, and he smiles. And he kisses her, and she laughs against his mouth when he grabs the hundred back.

**_____________________**

"I'm worried about Jason," he mumbles into Selina's collarbone. He's lying roughly on top of her, both of them collapsed in a heap in the middle of Selina's tiny bed.

"Hmm?" Selina is running an idle hand through his hair, stroking it with the tips of her fingers. She yawns, like she's going to fall asleep. Her legs are still tangled in his.

Bruce starts to get up to put his clothes back on. He should go; it's already nearing morning. He raises his head back up from her shoulder, looking around blearily for his shirt.

Selina pulls him back, one hand on the back of his neck. "Stay for a while," she says, her face and mouth softened by the sex, "until I fall asleep."

Bruce studies her. She's never asked that before. Sunlight steams through her window, hitting the back of their legs.

"Okay," he says finally, his hands tracing shapes over her arms. He rolls them over, to get more comfortable. Selina has a way of cutting off all the blood circulation in his arm by sleeping on it.

She doesn't seem to notice his initial apprehension, settling against his body like a, (Bruce winces internally) like a cat. "Good. Now tell me about this Jason thing."

"He almost killed someone again," Bruce says, his eyes flat, like they're somewhere else. "I've benched him so many times. It doesn't work. Every time he goes back to patrol, it's the same."

Selina is silent for a while. When she speaks, her voice is softer. More serious. "I don't think benching him will work. He needs more attention from you. Spend some time with him that's not patrol. Ask him how school is. Go fishing. Say you're proud of him. Give the boy a _hug_ for _God's sake_ , Bruce."

She leans in to kiss his cheek, and Bruce can feel himself closing his eyes, bringing an arm around her.

"He's just so _angry_ ," Bruce says. "Like me, when I was younger."

He can feel Selina's smile against his head. "I remember that. Your righteous crusade years. You used to say things like, _Catwoman, halt!_ "

Bruce winces. "Yeah."

"You were _mean_." Selina says, laughing a little. "Always tying me up, and handcuffing me."

"You liked it," Bruce says, giving her a crooked grin.

Selina swats at his head. "How _dare_ you accuse me of all the freaky things your sexy supermodel friends are into."

"My supermodel friends are into celery sticks and pilates. Being handcuffed to a railing near the Gotham sewage treatment plant is not their idea of a good time."

Selina scoffs. "Yeah, like it's _my_ idea of a good time. _Most_ people just take their dates out for dinner and a movie, you know."

"Most people," he says, half-asleep himself, "don't steal precious works of art just for kicks."

"Hey. Buddy, you want a normal girl, you go knocking somewhere else. I have five cats, and two of them have sixteen carat diamonds embedded in their collars. And I have an original Rembrandt on top of my dishwasher. I'm as far from normal as it gets."

"Mm." Bruce says, his eyes closing. "I'm going to return the Rembrandt as soon as I wake up again."

Selina smiles again, slow and wide. "Like I'd let you."

  
When he reaches the manor again, he realises that he's short of two hundred and forty nine dollars and one painting. He smiles a little, and wonders what the compensation for an original Rembrandt is, in terms of cowboy hats.

**____________________**

Tim shifts nervously on the chaise lounge as Bruce, who's seated across of him, going through the photos and news clippings.

There is a long silence before Bruce speaks. "When?"

Tim swallows. His throat feels strangely dry. "Uh. What?" He says, trying to stay calm.

"When did you find out." Bruce says. He asks questions in a funny way; there's never any uptilt at the end of one. He's so _different_ from the Bruce that Tim met in the circus, that it shakes him up. This Bruce is quieter. More driven, more focused. Angrier.

Tim scratches the back of his neck. "When I was eleven. I saw Nightwing do a quadruple somersault, and so I knew he was Dick. Then the rest of the pieces fell in place."

Bruce frowns. "What?"

So Tim explains the story of how he was there at the circus, and how he started tracking the movements of batman and robin not much longer after that, and how he lives alone now, because his mom is dead and his father roams the world, unable to move past the death of his wife. He tells Bruce how he clicked that picture on that warm April night, and how exhilarating it felt. He shows him the photos, the clippings that he kept. His ticket stub to Haley's circus, that he still has. He tells him that he saw Jason Todd from his window almost everyday. He tells him everything.

After that, Tim takes a deep breath, and waits for the verdict.

Bruce is still frowning down at table. It looks like he's reading a clipping that Tim had stored. It's an article about Batman and Robin rescuing hostages from a clocktower. He's looking at it with immense concern, a notch in his brow.

Tim clears his throat, and Bruce looks up suddenly, almost like he'd forgotten Tim was sitting here the whole time.

"So," Tim starts, "we need to talk about how Jason's d-"

"How much money do you want?" Bruce asks, interrupting the speech Tim's been saying in front of the mirror for a week.

Tim stops short, looking confused. " _What_?"

"How much money," Bruce says, "do I need to give to you to ensure you don't give this secret away? I understand that you already come from a considerably wealthy family, so a small sum won't suffice, correct?"

Tim frowns, "That's. . . _Uh_. I don't want any money. Listen, Mr. Wayne, I'm here to talk about Robin."

"What about him." Bruce says, giving the article one last look before he looks back up at Tim.

"Mr. Wayne," Tim says, struggling with his words. "I- don't you think it's time to stop? He's already gone."

Bruce's jaw is tight as he looks at Tim. "This is none of your business. You're smart, but you're just a child. You don't know anything."

Tim's eyes flick to his, and Bruce can see a quiet determination, a thin blade of steel in them. "You'd be surprised how much I know. You killed a man yesterday. That's not what Batman does."

"I didn't do that."

"Then who did, Mr. Wayne? Because I was there that night, when you broke that man's fingers. And he gave you a name, and the man with that name is now dead." Tim hopes he sounds tough.

Maybe it's working, because Bruce looks at him appraisingly. "I didn't do it." He says again.

"Mr. Wayne, you can deny things as much as you like, because I know that you're still broken up about his-"

"It was Harley Quinn."

"-death. You're not listening to me, I. . . What?"

"It was Harley Quinn. She broke into his home and shot him in the head. She's in police custody right now. I can provide the police records if you'd like proof." Bruce says, dryly.

"Oh." All of a sudden Tim feels stupid. "Well. I-" he clears his throat. "Okay." then he pauses. "Could I have some coffee please?" He says finally.

Bruce looks bemused. "What?"

"I'm going to have to tell you something, and I'd like it if I could have some coffee before that, please. I didn't have any in the morning because I forgot to make some when I saw the news about the dead guy, and now my hands are shaking because I'm going into withdrawal." Tim says, his voice sounding a little squeaky to himself. What the _hell_ is he doing? Did he just ask _Batman_ to make him some _coffee_?

Bruce stares at him for a long time, saying nothing. Tim squirms under his gaze. Finally, he sighs, and asks, "how do you like it?"

"Black, please." Tim says, his hands awkwardly placed in his lap.

Five minutes later, both of them are holding cups of coffee, and Tim sips his almost reverently. It immediately wakes him up, his nerves buzzing with energy. He sighs a little.

Bruce is looking at him with concern. "Aren't you too young for coffee?"

"No." Tim says, taking another large gulp.

"Fair enough." Bruce says, drinking some of his own. "What did you want to say?"

"Oh. Right." Tim puts the cup down. It has a picture of a black dog on it, and the handle is slightly chipped. Not at all like a cup you'd find in a billionaire's house. Tim wonders which son it used to belonged to.

"Last year, I was walking down a street near the mordern art museum uptown. It's a fancy place. You must know it. And I was taking pictures, of just general things. It helps to brush up on your photography once in a while, when you want to take decent, non-blurry pictures of moving figures at night time. And I was crossing the road, and I saw right across me, in the middle of the square, this green boot. People were walking around it, not really giving it much thought. But it was very clearly evident, right in the middle of the sidewalk. Standing upright. One green, laced up pixie boot."

Bruce's hand clenches the handle of the cup tight.

"You know where this story is going," Tim says, and Bruce nods, looking down.

"But I didn't know anything about this boot back then, so I asked someone what it was. That's because I wasn't really allowed to go into the city that much, earlier. So I didn't really know the popular landmarks. Because it was definitely a really popular landmark. In fact, the first guy I asked knew all about it, and he looked like a total tourist. He had a fanny pack and everything. Told me that the story goes, that one night on patrol, Batman and Robin were fighting some members of this cartel, about fifty guys or so, when Robin saw this five year old girl standing in the middle of the road, and she was covering her ears and crying, because there was a gunfight going on, and she was scared. So Robin ran to the road, in the middle of this full-blown gang war, and he picked up this girl, and he dove behind this car, and one of his boots came off in the process, and it rolled out onto the pavement. And obviously about twenty different people shot at him, so the car was completely totalled. But then of the cartel bosses saw this little girl, and they ordered a cease-fire. So Robin came out from behind the car, with this five year old girl who was crying for her mom. And the cartel guys started to feel really shitty, because some of them had daughters, and they'd have shot her down by now if Robin hadn't seen her. So they decided to stop fighting. And then Robin asked them if they had seen her mom anywhere, and none of the guys had, so they decided to start looking for her mom. And because the fighting had stopped, people in the neighbouring buildings started to look out of their windows, and they realised that these guys, all these hardened criminals with glocks in their pockets were looking for a little girl's mother, and they started to join the search too. And they called up other people, and those other people started to call up others, and by morning there were about fifty thousand people in Gotham looking for her mom. And the police joined in, and the mayor. And Robin was in the centre of all of it, wasn't he? He lead the search. He did it wearing one boot. And they found her mom."

Tim can see Bruce put his mug down, his eyes on the floor.

"I wonder," Tim says, "what would've happened if Robin hadn't been there that day. Some little kid would've died, and life would have gone on, right?"

Bruce says nothing.

"Batman _needs_ a Robin, Bruce. _Gotham_ needs a Robin." Tim whispers, taking out a folded piece of paper from the pocket of his jeans, and hands it to Bruce.

Bruce opens it. It's a photograph of a faded, green shoe in the middle of a pavement on a busy street.

"They don't move it. Ever. Someone actually erects a shelter around it when it's raining or snowing. Schools make it part of their tour around the city. The day when all of Gotham dropped everything to find a little girl's mom. Did you know that?" Tim says.

"No." Bruce says. He pauses. "I was angry that day. At Jason, when he did that. He could have been killed." He looks away to the side, just a slide of his eyes, and suddenly it is painfully clear that Bruce loved his son so much. So very much.

"Bruce, you need a new Robin. You're not yourself without him. Let me be Robin." Tim says, his voice sounding sure and resolute, but also desperate in a way he's sure Bruce can make out.

Bruce is already shaking his head. "No. Not again. I won't let anyone die again."

"No one has to die. I'll train. I don't have fighting experience, but I can learn. I'll work hard." Tim says, but he already knows the answer.

Bruce only shakes his head again. "It's too dangerous, and you're too young."

"But I can-"

"No." Bruce says. "Tim, I'm sorry, but I can't let another kid die. That's what happens, when you have my kind of life."

Tim is silent for a while, trying to come up with an argument. "The pros outweigh the cons. Robin is the heart of Gotham, Bruce. Batman protects us, but Robin gives us _hope_."

"Go home, Tim." Bruce says, not unkindly. In fact, he sounds almost tired. Either way, for him, this conversation is over. "It was nice talking to you."

Tim gets up to leave. "Okay. Thanks for the coffee. You should keep the photos. I don't need them anymore." He says, and turns to leave.

Bruce frowns. "Just like that? You're not going to fight for it?"

Tim turns around. "Oh, I'm _going_ to fight. I knew you wouldn't say yes the first time I asked. Actually I didn't even think you'd let me come into the house, so I'm actually considering this as a win. I'll keep asking, don't worry, Mr. Wayne."

Bruce shakes his head. "It's Bruce, and I'll be saying the same thing every time you ask."

"Bye, Bruce. I'll be here again tomorrow, saying the same kind of thing." Tim says, waving somewhere in his general direction. "I'll show myself out."

"Goodbye." Bruce says. "Don't come back."

"Sure thing, Bruce." Tim says, not meaning it at all. "See you tomorrow."

He makes his way out of the manor, and knows that Bruce is still standing just where he left him, staring at him go. 

The sun has been out for a while now, but his day is just beginning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hoped you liked reading that. I'm sorry I'm being late with my updates; I'll try to post more reliably.


	6. Radio Waves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce makes a discovery, which comes at a price. Tim is here to help with radios and strong opinions about 70s rock music.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Bruce and Tim bond over being total nerds.

After Tim is gone, Bruce stares down at the floor and tries not to remember where else he's seen that stubborn determination.

And then he looks back up.

The article.

That article about the clocktower. He makes his way back to the table where Tim had dumped all his files and photos, and rifles through them all until he finds it. He reads through it fast, and then he checks the date on the newspaper.

Eleventh November.

Bruce swears loudly, and puts the article in the pocket of his sweats. He picks up his phone, and calls Alfred.

"Hello?"

"Alfred, I need you back here. I found something." Bruce says, already heading back down to the cave.

"You slept last on Wednesday." Is all Alfred says.

"So?"

"So today is Saturday."

"Doesn't matter. I'm not going on patrol. I just need to do some research. I'll need your help."

He doesn't hear anything on the phone a while, but he's sure that Alfred is sighing. "Very well, master Bruce."

Bruce nods, and turns the hands of the clock. The gears shift in a series of clicks and a steel vault behind the wooden facade opens with the crunching grind of stone against metal.

"Oh, and Alfred?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Call Dick. He needs to see this."

**______________________**

Bruce's eyes open, and Jason grins.

"Oh, thank _god_ ," he says, his smile strangely watery. "I didn't think you'd ever get up. The Joker got you good this time."

Bruce blinks a few times, and tries to sit up. And he grunts and clutches at the railing on the bed. The floor of the med bay is tilting slightly.

"Woah," Jason says, standing up to help him, "that's a bad idea. You have a lot of broken parts right now."

Bruce clenches his jaw, and lies back down, still breathing hard. Jason gives him some water, and Bruce drinks it slowly. "What happened?" He says, and his voice sounds strange to himself. Broken and raspy.

"I don't know," Jason says, fidgeting with his hands. "It- I think we were ambushed. There was some kind of team up. Scarecrow and Riddler and I don't know who else. You got hit," Jason says, and his voice sounds scared. "You got hit _really_ bad. I got us out as fast as I could."

"And the Joker?"

"Got away again," Jason shrugs.

Bruce touches his jaw tenderly with the tips of his fingers. It feels sore and stubbly. It feels like he hasn't shaved in a while.

"How long have I been out?" He asks, frowning.

"Three days."

Bruce raises an eyebrow. " _Three_ _days_? What did you and Alfred tell people?"

"Uh. . . That you went to Bermuda."

The eyebrow shoots higher. "Bermuda."

"Yeah. I- look, it's not like we had a lot of options, okay? I just didn't- I didn't think you'd- we _couldn't_. . . you weren't waking up so I thought that-," Jason cuts himself off, and looks away, looks to a side, breathing hard.

"Are you okay," Bruce asks after a while, his voice quiet.

Jason shakes his head, still looking off to a side.

Bruce puts the glass of water down and pulls Jason towards him, his arms around him. Jason makes a small noise at the back of his throat, and curls up against Bruce, his head tucked into Bruce's neck.

Bruce winces again, and Jason shifts some of his weight off of Bruce's ribs. "Sorry," he says.

Bruce folds his arms around Jason, and they sit there for some time, not really talking. He strokes Jason's back. Jason closes his eyes, inhaling.  
"It's okay," Bruce says. "You're okay."

Jason is quiet. He's shaking, and Bruce tries to pull back a little to give him some room. Jason is just short of clinging onto him. His hands are almost too tight around Bruce. White knuckled.

"It's okay," Bruce says again. "I'm not going anywhere."

It's a long time before Jason nods.

"You sure?"

Jason nods again, and Bruce pulls back. "Okay." He says. "Get your old man a shirt, and let's track this damned clown down."

Jason grins again.

**_____________________**

Dick is studying the monitors, twirling an escrima stick in one hand casually. "So?" He says, "what does it mean?"

Bruce doesn't bother to look up from the computer where he's looking for their archival records. "I thought you'd have figured it out by now."

"Uh. I mean, yeah I get it. 11th November. My birthday? That article about the clocktower. That was our first big case together, back when I was Robin. So? What does it mean? Do tell, Oh Great Detective." Dick says, saying the last part with a grin.

"This is serious, Dick." Bruce says, looking up at him and Dick immediately feels like he's twelve years old again, and he's broken that Ming dynasty vase that Bruce told him not to touch.

"Sorry," he says, "bit much?"

Bruce levels him with another look, and Dick raises his hands in a complacent gesture.   
" _Okay_ , okay. So the Joker's going to do something in the clocktower on eleventh November?"

"Or he's going to try to do something to you." Bruce says, his face looking grim and drawn. Suddenly it occurs to Dick just how much family Bruce has lost so far. He won't let himself be added to the list.

"Hey," Dick says, "lighten up, big guy. I can take care of myself. Besides, we don't know anything for sure right now. Maybe it's just a big coincidence."

"There are no coincidences-"

"- when it comes to the Joker. I know, I _know_. But I'll be fine- I've got a few safehouses in Blüdhaven, so I can hole up in one of them for a few days, watch some TV and whatnot." Dick says, leaning back in the console chair.

But Bruce is shaking his head. "I'm not taking anymore chances. You're staying here until the Joker is back in Arkham. Preferably in the cave. Just for a few months, of course. Alfred can handle the logistics of bringing your things back from your apartment. I also expect you to stop talking to any associates not directly related to the mission. It's not safe."

Dick stares at him, his mouth half-open. "Bruce," he says, "you can't expect me to live here."

"Why not?" Bruce asks, already looking back at the computer screens, his attention elsewhere. Clearly, this conversation is over for him. "Do you have a problem with any of the arrangements?"

"You're damn right I do! I'm not just going to up and leave my job! What about my life, my home?"

"I thought this was your home." Bruce says, his hands stilling over the keyboards.

Dick frowns. "This hasn't been my home for a long time," he says, and then immediately feels terrible about it when he sees Bruce flinch."And what about Nightwing? Who's going to look after Blüdhaven?" Dick says, putting the escrima stick down, and running a hand through his hair.

"Blüdhaven can wait," Bruce says. "This cannot."

Dick shakes his head in disbelief. "I figured you'd say something like this eventually. I don't even know why I'm surprised." He pauses. "Do you think that you can keep me locked in here forever? Bruce, none of us are particularly safe at any given time. I've been doing this since I was _twelve_. You can trust that I know how to fend for myself." For some reason he's getting up now, and pacing through the room.

When Bruce says nothing, Dick goes on. "Listen, what happened to Jason was-"

"Don't talk to me about Jason." Bruce says, his voice deathly quiet. "Don't you _dare_. You knew _nothing_ about him."

If nothing else, Bruce has at least managed to quiet Dick into a shocked silence. Dick clenches his fist, feeling an irrational need to hit something.   
"He was my brother," Dick says, just as quiet. "I loved him."

Bruce is silent again, still staring at the screen.

"You know what, Bruce? I'm getting really tired of your bullshit. Your stupid, ignorant, 'it's up to me now to save the world' bullshit. I don't know, call me crazy, but for _some_ reason I thought this whole _killing the joker_ thing was going to pass. You know what normal people do when they lose someone? They _grieve_. They don't run around half murdering people." Dick says, and he knows that he's going too far, but he can't stop. Bruce's face is white as he stares up at Dick.

"So don't _ever_ say I knew nothing about Jason again. He used liked chocolate chip ice cream and skateboarding. And he used to ask me every _goddamned_ week if you actually _liked_ him. He-" Dick cuts himself off, shaking his head. "Did it ever _occur_ to you," he hisses, "that the rest of us are grieving too? Did you the think it was _easy_ , for the rest of us? I'm just _trying_ , Bruce, I'm just _trying_ to get back to living my life."

If Bruce looked pale before, it looks like his face is wholly drained of blood now.

"So don't give me that crap _ever_ again. I'm _done_. I'm _done_  with going along with your redemption plans and your insane battle schemes. Count me out of all of it." He says, and he strides back up the stairs and out of the cave again, his heart pounding, and the bitter taste of anger in his mouth.

The steel door slams shut behind him with a resounding clang.

Bruce stares at the abandoned escrima stick, something painful constricting his chest. The screen in front of him is displaying a higher resolution picture of the one in the original article, the one with the two of them in front of the clocktower. He dug it up from archival just to show to Dick.  
It was a photo of the two of them taken during daytime, a rare occurrence. Robin, wielding a pair of handcuffs and a holding onto an unconscious street thug, looking up at Batman with a smile on his face, his small face tilted up towards the sun.

He switches off the monitor.

**_______** **________________**

The hours slowly turn to days that turn to weeks. There are no new leads, and Bruce sits in the cave, hating every second of not knowing, of not understanding what will happen next. He tries to get Harley put in Blackgate this time, but too many officials and cops have seen what she's capable of. Of how many throats she's slit, of how many men she's killed. All that blood on her hands put there by that one voice in her head. She's back in Arkham two days after her arrest. He interrogates her often, but she never yields any information, and after a while Bruce starts to suspect that she doesn't actually know anything that the Joker didn't want her to know.   
He abandons his attempts at interrogating her after a month.

Tim comes everyday, and sometimes Bruce contemplates not letting him into the house at all. The days he does that though, Tim just waits outside until he's let in, standing by the door patiently. A tough spine built of steely determination and quiet intent. That's Tim Drake, he's slowly coming to find out.

"You could inform him that you're not available," Alfred says one day, while dusting the wooden panellings on the doorway that Tim is waiting on the other side of. "Tell him that you have a meeting. An invitation to a gala, perhaps."

"At ten in the morning?" Bruce asks, sounding somewhat irritable. He puts his cup of coffee down on the table without a coaster, and ignores Alfred's consequent glare. "I wish I was still young enough to go to parties that went on till ten, Alfred."

Alfred shrugs and goes back to dusting. "Hope springs eternal, sir. Age is just a number. Personally, I still feel like a spritely young man of forty myself."

Bruce frowns at that as well. "So do I, sometimes." He's thirty five.

"If I may speak freely, sir," Alfred continues.

"When do you not?" Bruce interjects, lifting his coffee cup back up and drinking from it.

" _Hush_. If I may speak freely, I should inform you that I'm rooting for him. I've grown fond of his perseverance. It reminds me of someone. Who, I wonder." Alfred says dryly, "do I remember, used to waited outside the kitchens all day, everyday until I finally agreed to teach him how to use a katana in combat."

"The real question is _why_ you knew how to use one." Bruce points out, now looking at the door warily. "And I was only eight. Exceptions could be made for my obstinacy at that age."

"Has it occured to you that maybe _you_ are the one being obstinate? Exceptions can hardly be made now." Alfred says, giving him a look.

" _Alfred_." He protests.

"Stop your sobbing and open the door, master Wayne." Alfred says.

Bruce sighs, and goes to open the door."I _can_ fire you, you know."

"I'd like to see you try." Alfred says, flippant.

Bruce opens the door, and Tim nods at him.

"Go home," Bruce says, for what feels like the thousandth time.

"Good morning," Tim says back, and walks into the house, striding past him into the foyer. "Do you have any breakfast? I'm kind of hungry."

Bruce looks at Alfred, "Stop smiling."

Alfred does not stop smiling.

  
Tim usually stays for an hour or two, doing his homework, or working on one of his projects on his laptop. He's always quiet, not at all like the first time he came. Some days they sit together in the batcave, Bruce modifying a suit or a batmobile, while Tim does his algebra homework. The familiarity is almost physically painful. He almost calls him Jason once or twice.   
Other days they sit in Bruce's study, while Bruce goes through emails and quarterly reports from various Wayne subsidiary companies. Tim sits near him sometimes watching him go through files, or sometimes playing games on Bruce's laptop. Most of the time though, he messes around with a small radio transmitter that he carries in his pocket.

"I built it with my dad," he says. "I've got the reciever at home. You want to see how it works?"

Bruce has built radio transponders that bounce signals off of the watchtower satellites. But he says _yes_ , he would like to see how it works.

"Okay," Tim says, moving a little closer so that Bruce can see the transmitter. It's smaller than Tim's palm, so it looks tiny in Bruce's when Tim gives it to him. "See that thing there?" Tim says, pointing to a small metal plug, "that's the crystal oscillator. And that one's the modulator, you can use that to change volumes and stuff." He says, pointing to it.

"Then you have connect that," he touches another plug, "to a metal pipe or something with a good ground connection. And you've got to have a lot of wire. And a big antenna. Then your range increases by much more."

"What range does this one have?" Bruce asks, tracing the wires with his fingers.

Tim's face falls. "A few feet, maybe. On good days it's the distance between two rooms."

"Tim," Bruce says, "do you know what place has a lot of electrical wiring and really large antennas? And possibly the best ground connection you'll get in Gotham?"

Tim grins. " _Really_?"

"Sure," Bruce says. "Why not." Tim has insisted on invading Bruce's house, so he might as well have fun doing it. And strange as it may seem, it feels good to have a child at home again. It feels good to hear someone laugh and talk and try to explain things to Bruce that he already knows.

So they go down to the batcave with Tim's little transmitter, and Bruce almost laughs when he sees the look on Tim's face as he sees the thousands of feet of copper wire coils. Antennas that are a dozen feet long. Germanium diodes, and batteries the size of his head. Rheostats and gushes of all sizes.

"Bruce," Tim says, his eyes wide, "You could hear _Japan_ with all of this." He says.

"The watchtower, is more like it." He says.

Tim makes a sound that is very much like a squeak.

They spend all afternoon unwrapping and rewrapping wire, fixing plugs and finding a ground connection, which is not very hard, since the batcave is in fact, underground. Tim picks up a solder gun and really goes to town with it, before it occurs to Bruce that he's maybe too young to handle power tools. Bruce tries to take it from him, and it surprises Tim, so his hand jerks a little and suddenly there's hot metal all over a keyboard. Bruce isn't even mad. Soon the entire floor of the console room is covered in wire and solder splatter, and both of them are grinning like idiots.

Alfred makes them break for lunch, and Tim eats cucumber sandwiches while Bruce shows him how to set up a crystal radio with a plastic bottle and some tape.

After lunch, it's back to working on Tim's transmitter. They turn up the modulator to its maximum setting, so loud that they'll be able to hear the music from the reciever all the way from Tim's house. Bruce plugs in his phone and the opening notes to Take It Easy start to play. It's working, because Bruce can hear it faintly from the reciever from Tim's house all the way across the stone fence. "Would you look at that," Bruce says, "we fixed your range problem."

Tim looks at him like he's a mad man. "The _Eagles_?"

"They were a good band," he says, slightly defensively.

Tim makes a choking-coughing noise that sounds suspiciously like a laugh. "Ever heard of the phrase ' _Dad Rock_ '?"

Bruce only shakes his head in resignation, and starts collecting all the wire and putting it back.

But Tim's not done. " _Do you_ ," he starts saying, and then cuts himself off to laugh, clutching at his stomach, "Do you also like _Hotel California_?"

Bruce blinks, like he doesn't understand the question. "Yes."

Tim collapses into silent laughter, covering his face with his hands. "Holy _God_ ," he says, gasping it out, " _Bruce_ , the seventies called, and they want their soundtrack back."

Bruce looks up from the console that's now full of tools, "Stop making fun of me," he says, "I helped you with your radio. I'm going to take all my equipment back."

"Quick," Tim says, not believing a word, "play Hotel California on your phone. I want to hear you sing along. Oh my god." He starts laughing again, and Bruce turns away so that Tim can't see him smile.

They work through the rest of the evening, and eventually they have all the kinks smoothened out.

"It looks like my transmitter's on steroids now," Tim says after it's all done, and this time Bruce _does_ laugh. He watches afterwards, as Tim looks at the plans of the watchtower satellite radios in awe, running his hands over the blueprints and the plastic 3D models. It's a curious thing, Bruce thinks, how he can never stop falling in love with these kids over and over again.

It's almost dusk before Tim leaves that day, and when Bruce comes to drop him off at the door, Tim presses the transmitter into Bruce's palm. "Keep it," he whispers, "I've got the reciever at home, so you can talk to me anytime. Play some Dad Rock once in a while. I was thinking, Eric Clapton?" He smiles.

Bruce scratches at his neck, and Tim's eyes widen. "No way. Eric Clapton? Really?"

"Go home," Bruce says irritably, his cheeks a little pink.

Tim is shaking his head again, "Oh man," is all he can say. "Oh _man_." He grins and turns to leave, walking his way back to the manor.

"Tim?" Bruce calls out to his retreating figure.

"Yeah?" Tim says, without turning back.

"See you tomorrow."

Tim looks at him then, staring at him with those too piercing eyes. "Yeah, I will."

Bruce watches him go, the small transmitter warm in the palm of his hand. Tomorrow.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm basically posting this to tell you that I'm NOT abandoning this ship. The reason I haven't been posting regularly is because I have a particularly important set of exams coming up, so there may be radio silence (ha!) for the next month or so. But after that, expect me to get back to schedule! 
> 
> On a separate note, I recently made my dad take a dad rock music quiz, and he had listened to about 70% of the stuff on that list. The Eagles are his favourite band. THIS IS FOR YOU, DAD.
> 
> Please leave a comment!


	7. The Feed

"What happened?" Batman asks, examining a broken window in the front of the electronic store. It has the slightest smear of blood on it. A partial fingerprint, maybe. He puts it in an evidence bag.

"Joker came in with some of his thugs, broke some glass and roughed up the place, took fifty units of some type of camera and left." Jim tells him, tiredly stirring his coffee. "Not before killing Mr. Feldman, here," he says, pointing to the body sprawled over the rest of the broken glass. "Shows signs of struggle. Skin under his fingernails. He probably didn't like the idea of someone taking fifty CCTVs from his store. They left from the back exit."

Batman studies the body. His fingers are curled into stiff fists. Rigor Mortis is starting to set in. "Did he have any family?" He asks, moving towards the back of the store.

Jim follows him, motioning for the forensics team to take the body away. "Widower. Three kids. All grown."

Batman goes into the stockroom. The cardboard and plastic packages are all over the place, the shelves broken and splintered. One of the walls has a large smile drawn on it.

"He doesn't do anything in halves, does he?" Jim says, scrubbing at his face.

"No," Batman says. Vocal as ever.

There's the sound of a siren in the distance, and they both listen to it until it fades out - too far for them to be able to hear it any longer.

"This city," Jim says wearily, "One day it's gonna kill all of us."

"Not today."

"No, not today," Jim agrees. A pause, and then he frowns. "Why are you here again? It's still daytime."

"It's almost twilight." Batman says, and Jim arches his brow.

"Look," he says, "I know this Joker case is important to you, but you look like you haven't been sleeping. And you know it's bad when I can tell from just looking at your chin. What happened with Robin was-"

"Stop." Batman says.

"Oh _come on_ ," Jim says, "you can't just act like _nothing_ happened and-"

But Batman holds a finger up, motioning for him to stop talking. He moves to a side, pressing his finger to his ear through the cowl. "Yes. Report."  
Jim waits while Batman listens, and then says something into the earpiece. Then he looks back at Jim.

"They robbed another electronics store across town. More CCTVs. The sirens we heard just now, that was the police responding." Batman says.

Jim raises both eyebrows this time. "And?"

"And they got away again."

Jim exhales, rubbing at his temples. "Well. Can't say I'm surprised." Since when was the Joker in the business of stealing electronic goods?

Batman is rifling through the stockroom again, lifting and setting down several of the cardboard boxes.

"What are you looking for?" Jim asks, setting his coffee down on one of the few shelves that haven't been broken.

"The inventory sheet. Feldman should have had a record of all the stock he had." He says, putting the boxes down.

"My boys went through it already. We checked. Nothing more than those surveillance cams. It's in evidence now. Why?"

"So they took every surveillance camera this store had?"

"Yeah. What's going on?"

Batman stops his search, and comes to stand next to Jim, looking grave. "The store that they robbed across town was bigger. They took 70 units."

"So?" Jim asks, not understanding. He could really use a cigarette right now.

Batman surveys the chaos in the store, looking at the blood, the broken glass, the trail of murders that the Joker leaves behind him everywhere he goes.

"So what does the Joker want with a hundred and twenty CCTV cameras?"

**______________________**

  
Bruce reaches the batcave to find Tim working on the Batwing armour again, his dark mop of hair falling over his eyes as he tinkers with the chest plate over the work table.

"Leave it," Bruce says, like he has said countless times before, "it's not going to work yet. I'm going to have replace the entire flight system."

Tim shakes his head, running his grease-stained fingers through his hair. Bruce frowns, wondering if he ever washes it. "I've got this," Tim says, "All I need is to recalibrate the main radar system, and it'll stop bumping into things mid-flight."

Bruce takes off his cowl and gauntlets, and goes over to the workstation to see the blueprint the Tim has spread out. "That could work," he says grudgingly, "Maybe try doing the same for the external sensors."

Tim grins, not looking up from the table. "Already one step ahead of you. Set it up yesterday."

"How did you figure that out?" Bruce asks. Two months ago he was amazed at the idea of building a radio with a long range. The kid has one hell of a learning curve.

"I saw a video on YouTube," Tim says.

Bruce can't tell if he's kidding or not. He shakes his head. "Come here." He says.

Tim huffs and rolls his eyes, but obliges nonetheless. He walks over to Bruce, "Is this about the sleep thing again? Because I'm fine. I just don't need that much of it."

"Everyone needs sleep," Bruce says, leaning down and examining Tim's eyes. "They're definitely red again. Go home and go to bed."

Tim sighs. " _Bruce_ ," he said, his voice taking on a pleading tone, "come on. Thirty minutes."

Bruce frowns again. He knows Tim doesn't like going back to his house, and lately he's been spending more and more time here. In fact, it's past ten now. But what can he do, let the kid stay at his house? His parents would try to sue him into high heaven." _Twenty_ more minutes. And then you go home."

Tim's face breaks into a smile. "Thanks," he says, jogging back to the workstation, "You won't regret this. You're going to love the upgrade once it's done."

"I would love it more if you got more than nine hours of sleep a week."

"Mm," Tim says, already immersed into whatever he's fixing on the suit now.

Bruce unhooks his utility belt, and walks towards the computer consoles. He sets the belt down on the table. Alfred has set down a steaming plate of sandwiches next to the keyboard arrays, and Bruce takes one from the plate as he switches on a monitor.

"What're you looking for?" Tim yells from the other side of the cave.

"I'm going through the GCPD evidence records on their database. Just double-checking something." Bruce replies, taking a bite out of his sandwich.

"Isn't that, you know, kind of illegal?" Tim asks.

"Not really," Bruce says, "not when the commissioner knows that you're going to do it regardless of all the firewalls his team sets up."

Tim looks up. "That sounded dangerously like a joke, Bruce."

Bruce doesn't take his eyes off the screen. "Stop being a smartass, and come and take a sandwich. You don't eat enough either."

Tim makes a face again, but walks up to the consoles and picks up a sandwich regardless. "I drink a lot of fluids," he points out.

"Drinking a gallon of coffee a day isn't the best way to stay hydrated." He points out.

They pass their time making easy conversation like that, until it's time for Tim to get home. When Bruce tells him, Tim's face falls. Bruce sighs, feeling a twinge of something in his chest, and says, "Hold on, then. Let me go change. I'll drop you home. It's pretty late."

They both know that Tim has been in far dangerous places at much later times, but he'd looked so crestfallen at the idea of having to go home, that Bruce couldn't bear to see him trudge towards his house alone.

Tim perks up a little at that. "Maybe I can show you my other photos, the ones from that school trip I was talking about."

"Maybe. If your nanny lets a strange man into the house at almost eleven in the night."

"My nanny's asleep, Bruce. I told her I was going to a friend's place, and that I'd be back late. Mostly she was just glad that I had a friend." Tim smiles, and there's something about the quirk of his mouth when he does it that reminds Bruce a little of Dick.

Before he steps into the showers to change, he tries calling Dick again. There's been complete radio silence from him for the last two months, something that hasn't happened since Dick was seventeen and Bruce hadn't let him go to that trip with the Titans to Peru. Instead, that summer they had gone on a trip across the country, touring potential colleges that Dick could have gone to. He still remembers the suffocatingly stony silence in the car while they drove across state after state, the sullen anger practically radiating off of Dick in waves.   
He dropped out, a year into Stanford.   
So it didn't really matter in the end. He should have just gone to Peru and had fun with his friends.

The phone goes straight to voicemail, as always. Bruce briefly contemplates leaving a message, but ultimately decides against it. He stares at the dark screen of the phone for a while, before setting it back down on the table.

It seems like all he does anymore is make mistakes when it comes to his children.

  
**________________________**

  
Outside, Tim is waiting for him at the manor entrance, rocking to and fro on the balls of his feet slightly. "Let's hurry," he says, "it's going to rain soon."

Bruce looks up, and sure enough, the sky is heavy with clouds. A wind starts snapping about them, making the leaves of the trees rustle. They half-jog, half-run across the lawn and down the driveway of the manor, until they reach the gates of Drake Mansion. The first drops of rain patter on them lightly as they move, hitting their heads and backs.

On reaching the main doors, Tim opens the lock with a quiet click, and they enter a dark and large hall. Tim flicks on the lights, and they walk in. Tim puts his keys on a table on the foyer, and walks into the kitchen, tracking mud from outside all over the pristine floor.

" _Tim_ ," Bruce says, following him, and then abruptly stops because he realises that he sounds just like Alfred. 

He turns to have a look around at the main hall, and frowns when he sees the gym equipment. There's a treadmill and weights, and even a bench press. A towel slung casually over one of the rods. The treadmill belt is slightly worn. He must use it everyday.  
He runs a finger over the weights. It's too much for a thirteen year old.

"I reheated some coffee from earlier, and there's some ice cream in the- Oh," Tim says, re-entering the main hall, "You found the training stuff." He stands there, looking slightly guilty.

"You know that I said I wasn't going to take you on as Robin," Bruce says simply. It's better to be blunt now, than be sorry later.

Tim sighs. "I know what you said, but I think if you'd _just_ reconsider, Bruce, we could-"

"No."

There's silence from the other side of the room, where Tim stands and looks at the floor.

"Okay," Tim says finally, in a quiet voice. "Your coffee's getting cold." He hands the cup to Bruce.

Bruce takes it. "I won't change my mind about this. Ever." He says. That night in the warehouse, when he had finally found Jason's body under the rubble and fire, he had not been able to look at his hands. Jason's fingernails had melted right off in the fire. His beautiful son's hands.

Tim only shakes his head. "One day you will," his voice is that same one - calm, quiet. "And I'll be ready."

When Bruce says nothing, Tim takes the cup out of his hands again. "You aren't going to drink this anyway," he sighs, and sets it down on the same table as his keys. "Come on, I've got to show you something." He says, going towards the stairs.

Bruce goes with Tim to the third floor landing, and down a hallway until they reach the very end. Tim stops outside a door, "This is my room," he says, opening the door and going in.

Inside, it's a mess. A few faded posters are stuck to one side of a wall haphazardly, and the bed is half-covered in piles of laundry and camera equipment. A few photos of the city carelessly scattered on the floor. His radio reciever sits on the bedside table next to crumbled wrappers and a model navy ship. There are books and notebooks stacked precociously on a small study on one side of the room, and a small armada of plates and mugs stacked on various shelves around the room.

"I cleaned up a little today," Tim says, pushing through the laundry piles, towards the windows.

"Oh," Bruce says, because what else can he possibly say to that?

"Come take a look at this," Tim says, pointing out the window. "See that? That's your lawn. I can see Alfred gardening in the mornings. He always has this straw hat on that looks really ridiculous," Tim says, laughing.

"Don't let Alfred hear you say that." Bruce smiles, looking out the window at the manor. It's strange seeing it from the outside. Almost like a kind of dissociative experience.

Tim taps his fingers against the glass of the window absently. "And sometimes I see you go to their graves," he continues quietly. "They must have been really good people. Good parents."

Bruce looks at Tim. "The best," he says finally. "They were the best parents."

"Must have been nice." Tim says, pressing his head against the glass of the window.

"It was." He says, and tries to say something more, something about how he used to want to be like his father when he grew up, a surgeon with the the most careful hands, like his mother with her kind eyes, but finds that it gets stuck in his throat, a tight knot constricting it.

"Tim," he says instead, looking away from the window, "I thought I'd... this is something I've been thinking over for a while, and I know that your father is still-," he pauses, trying to choose the right words, "Would you ever consider, I mean, would you be opposed to letting me have custody of-"

"Bruce," Tim stares, his eyes wide, " _Yes_ ," he breathes out.

"I just, I don't want you to be-"

" _Batsy, batsy_!" A voice crackles through Tim's reciever, and both of them stiffen. It's that voice. The voice that makes Bruce clench his fists and grab the reciever off of the table, listening to it closely. The Joker.

Tim looks back at him, and his face is pale when he says, "Bruce what the _hell_ is-"

"I know what you're thinking, bats," The voice continues, "what the hell kind of game is that little ol' nuisance playing with me now, huh? Sending messages to me through my bazillionaire pal Bruce Wayne? _Ha_!" He giggles, "Sorry bats! But I don't have any other way to talk to you! I could leave behind a nice message via a crime scene, but that would be a little clichéd, don't ya think?" Out of the corner of his eye Bruce can see Tim flinch.   
"Well batsy, today's your lucky day! Wanna know why?" Somewhere in the background he can hear a faint moan.

Bruce looks up at Tim, and what he's thinking must be clear by his expression, because Tim looks back at him and shakes his head. "It's a one way radio," he whispers to Bruce, "he can't hear what we're saying."   
Bruce turns up the volume to full.

"Because you can finally see your little robin again!" The Joker giggles again, and suddenly it feels like all the blood has rushed out of Bruce's body. "Jason?" He whispers at the radio, foolish hope surging through his chest. Tim is only watching him.

"Not the wee little one, obviously! No no no, he's dead and gone, bats." The voice crackles through the speaker, "I can crack good jokes, sure, but I can't resurrect the dead! C'mon Bats! _Keep up_!" He says.

"What is he talking about?" Tim mouths, and Bruce can only shrug helplessly. "I don't know," he says.

"No, I'm talking about the golden boy, the prodigal son! Robin number _one_! He's no fun though," The voice says, and it sounds dissapointed in a sick, sick way. "He struggled so much that we had to drug him up to the eyeballs. It's a shame," he says, "I wanted to make him laugh for this recording."

Bruce stares at the reciever, his heart pounding. This can't be real.

"Don't worry though, I didn't try to take his mask off or anything, bats. That would ruin all the _fun,_ wouldn't it, Nightwing? Is that what they call you now? Never fooled _me_ , _ha_!"   
He can hear another moan, and then a broken whisper. " _Batman_?" Dick whispers. "Is that you?"

Bruce puts his head in his hands. "Oh god," Tim whispers.

"So! Here are the rules. You _gotta_ stick to the rules, Batman. It's going to end badly for him if you don't. Midnight, tomorrow. I heard the full moon's going to be out tomorrow. Won't that be so _pretty_ , bats? Our previously discussed location," the Joker says, chucking like it's the funniest joke in the whole world.

"Bruce," Tim says, his eyes widening with realisation, "the only we he could get through to reciever would be to be talking through the transmitter, and I left it at-"

"-the manor." Bruce says. The Joker is at the manor.

"But _Alfred_ ," Tim whispers, and he can tell that Bruce is realising this at the same time as him, "he's still back there," and before he can even complete the rest of the sentence, Bruce is running down the stairs and out the door, across the lawn in the rain that's pouring down heavily now.

Tim stares after him through his window, and flinches again when the Joker's voice starts up again through the reciever.

"Oh, and Brucie? You got a real fancy pad. Maybe you won't mind passing this message on to the _big_ , _bad_ _Bats_ for me? Signing off now, _goodbye_ and _goodnight_!" He cackles, and the feed cuts to silence.

Tim closes his eyes. If he opens them again, maybe this will all have been a bad dream. He slowly sits down on the floor, the crumbled papers and photos all around him, and focuses on taking deep breaths. This is just a terrible nightmare. Nothing more.

He must have kept his eyes closed for longer than he thought, because the sound of Bruce coming up the stairs is what makes him open them again. Bruce is soaking wet, water tricking down from his hair to his face. He looks… _scared_ , Tim realises. In the three months that Tim has spent with him, he's _never_ seen Bruce look scared.

"How's Alfred?" Tim asks, his arms around his knees, hugging himself tightly.

"He's fine. He got knocked out, but he's fine. Still breathing." Bruce says, but his hands are shaking slightly. It's not from the cold rain. He's clutching onto something. A piece of paper. A photograph.

"What's that?" Tim whispers. He's afraid to know. Afraid to see.

Bruce gives it to him wordlessly, and sits down on the floor next to him. Tim can tell that he's trying to regulate his breathing, trying to slow it down. Trying not to make it clear to Tim as to just how shaken up he is.

"The Joker left behind a gift." Is all he says, his voice a clenched whisper of sound.

Tim opens the folded paper slowly, not wanting to know what's inside. It's a picture of Nightwing, of Dick. He's been bound and gagged. His eyes are half-closed, like he's been woken up from a deep sleep.

Tim looks quickly up at Bruce. Bruce is looking away, away from Tim, and more than anything, Tim wants to wipe that unnatural look of fear from Bruce's face. He's Batman. Batman shouldn't look scared.

"They really took him," Tim says, moving the photograph out of site. He doesn't want Bruce to have to see it ever again.

Bruce nods, swallowing. He's still not looking at Tim.

"What do we do?" Tim asks helplessly.

"I don't know," Bruce says, and they just sit there, right on the floor of Tim's room, like some kind of stupid pawns in the Joker's sick, twisted up game of chess.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I'm back. Back to work as promised, haha.


	8. An Unlikely Solution

" _No_ ," Bruce says, putting his gauntlets on, "and I won't say it again."

Tim sighs. He feels like tearing his hair out. "Bruce, _please_. I can help." He says, for what seems like the hundredth time, struggling to keep pace with Bruce as he strides across the large chambers of the batcave, towards the batmobile.

"No, you _can't_ help," Bruce says, also for what feels like the hundredth time, looking at him. "I'm not crazy enough yet to send a thirteen year old to face a homicidal maniac without any fighting experience or basic training. This is the real world. You'll get hurt."

"But you need _someone_ to have your back!" Tim says, "Atleast, I don't know, call Batgirl," They walk past the batwing armour, now fully fixed. Alfred is already down by the tunnel, near the batmobile. There's a gash on his forehead where one of the Joker's men hurt him while knocking him out. Tim can't quite look at it. He suspects Bruce can't either.

Bruce shakes his head. "I _know_ the Joker. If I bring anyone else, they'd get hurt. It has to be just me."

"Call _Superman_!" Tim says, trying to clutch at straws. If Bruce goes to the clocktower alone, he'll _die_. Tim _knows_ he will. "Call the whole Justice league!"

Bruce sighs, putting his cowl on. "It doesn't work that way. We don't take advantage of the Justice League to sort out personal problems and Clark would-" he cuts himself off. "Never mind. Why am I even _having_ this discussion with you? It's been decided already. You're _not_ coming, and neither is anyone else."

"But Bruce, you'll _die_." Tim says, and he feels his throat tightening. He changes tact, "You'd have let Robin come." He says, trying not to sniffle.

When Bruce sees Tim's expression, his face softens. He puts a hand on Tim's cheek briefly. "And look what happened," he says quietly.

Tim rubs at his eyes. "The Joker's going to-"

"Enough." Bruce says, and his voice is stern. They've reached the batmobile now, and he goes over to it's other side to get it. Alfred is standing to a side, watching.

Tim stands stiffly to a side while Bruce gets into the batmobile. He doesn't know what else he can say. Bruce is going to go in alone, and it'll all be his fault. Great.

A part of him wishes selfishly that this could happen later, that it could happen after Bruce had gone through with what he'd told Tim he wanted to do. Adopt him.

Adopt _him_. What did he need _Tim_ for?

It seems pretty fitting that Tim's only chance at having a family again vanished before it even really came into being. He tries not to be bitter, but it's hard. Maybe he's just meant to be alone forever.

He watches as Bruce gives Alfred and him one last long look before the doors of the batmobile extend downwards, and soon he is completely out of view as the black titanium hides him away. This is probably the last time he'll see Bruce. Something inside his chest contracts in the most horrible way.

The car reverses and dissapears into the ink black of the tunnel that leads out of the Batcave. Bruce is gone.

That leaves Alfred and Tim alone together at the mouth of the cave. There is a long silence in which Tim stares at the metallic mesh floor, trying very hard not to cry.

Alfred is still silent, still watching. In fact, he's been so quiet for the entirety of Bruce and Tim's argument that it's disturbing.

Tim looks up, blinking away the wetness in his eyes, slightly embarrassed. "Alfred," he begins, "I'm sorry if-"

"Master Tim," Alfred says, interupting Tim brusquely, "do not believe for a _moment_ that I shall let you follow Master Bruce into this dangerous trap that will inexplicably lead to grievous harm to the both of you."

"Oh," Tim says, feeling chastised, "but I wasn't even-"

"And certainly do not believe for a second that I shall let you leave through the downstairs kitchen door while I tell your nanny that you had quite a headache and fell asleep here, in one of the spare bedrooms." Alfred continues, picking up a rag from one of the tables.

"I. . . have a _headache_?" Tim says, more confused than ever.

"Certainly you do. It's bad enough that you had to go to bed immediately, do you see? And definitely bad enough for you to be unable to follow Master Bruce to the Clocktower, trailing him unbeknownst to anyone."

"Oh," Tim says, realisation dawning upon him, "Really? You'd do that for me?"

Alfred has started cleaning one of the large glass screens now, polishing them with the rag. "I shan't do anything other than tell your nanny you have a headache," he looks at Tim pointedly, "which you do."

"Of course." Tim says, grinning slightly. "It hurts like crap."

"There will be no need for any sort of vulgar language, Master Tim. Try to express your enthusiasm and thanks in more productive ways." Alfred says, not even looking up from the screens that he's cleaning.

"But Alfred," Tim says suddenly, his face falling, "Bruce _is_ right, you know. I don't have the skills or the training to help him."

Alfred stops cleaning, and huffs out a sigh. "Oh, you _daft_ little boy," he says, sounding dissapointed. He looks back at Tim, and points to the engineering worktable at the far side of the Batcave. "The answer is quite _literally_ staring at you in the face."

Tim turns around, and _huh_ , would you look at that, he really _did_ leave Batwing with its neck rotated towards the direction of the tunnel entrance. Its eyes look at Tim flatly in its depowered state.

"No _way_ ," Tim says, shaking his head. This is a crazy idea. "Bruce would skin me alive if he found out that I used the batwing armour without his permission. And we haven't even flight tested it yet."

"Master Tim," Alfred says in a grave voice, "listen to me. There is no time to worry about risks. You have _no_ option."

"But Alfred," Tim says in a small voice, "last week Bruce and I, we did some flight simulations for Batwing. Four of them, actually."

"And?" Alfred asks in a voice that has an undertone of frustration in it. It's not like Alfred to be impatient. He must be worried out of his mind.

"And we crashed it," Tim says, biting his lip, "we crashed it all four times."

"Well," Alfred says, blinking, "fifth time's the charm."

He doesn't sound so sure.

Tim approaches the Batwing armour warily, trying to look more confident. "Alfred?" He says again, with that same small voice.

"Yes?"

"I don't supposed I'll actually be able to, uh, to fly out the downstairs kitchen door with this thing on without attracting any attention, huh?"

"If by ' _attention_ ' you mean the entire state of New Jersey, then no. I suppose you won't. You'll have to use the Cave tunnel, same as Master Bruce."

"But the sensors? Won't Bruce know?"

"I'll turn them off, master Tim. Now hurry up and leave. He's halfway there already." Alfred says, moving towards Tim to help him into the suit. 

"Good luck," he says, "You'll certainly need it."

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Starring Tim Drake as a badly coordinated Iron Man. 
> 
> (Yes, I know this is a short chapter. If it's any consolation, the next one will be much, much longer)


	9. The Trigger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This concludes the story!

  The door of the batmobile slides upwards with mechanical click. Bruce steps out and looks around him warily. He doesn't like this situation. He doesn't like it at _all_.

The clocktower stands before him, almost looming predatorily above him in the pitch of the night. The roads are deserted. Not a single person on the road. Strange.

He walks towards it anyway, looking around him for anything that seems out of the ordinary. The batmobile drives away to the nearest secure location on autopilot. Something he learned to do after Jason. Jason would tease him about it frequently,

_What's the matter, worried you'll pick up more orphan waifs this way? We should call it the dadmobile instead._

There was a particular way he would laugh, when he was trying to egg Bruce on. A little lilting, slightly wry.

Bruce shakes himself out of it, and walks around to the back of the tower till he finds the maintenance entrance. He's not stupid enough to go through the main entrance- he can see the guards standing outside it, more of Joker's thugs- but he suspects that the Joker doesn't expect him to anyway. Before he opens the small side door he checks the hinges for explosive charges or C4. He doesn't feel like having his head blown off today. He runs his fingers lightly down the seam if the hard metal.

There are none. His glove comes back clean. Practically no obstructions. The door swings open easily; it's not even locked. Bruce frowns. This is stranger still. The Joker likes a challenge. What's different today?

He walks up the steps from the maintenance entrance to the top of the the tower slowly, trying to figure out the Joker's plan. Dick won't be here. Or at least, if he is, he'll be sedated. Or beaten up and unconscious. He doesn't want to think of the other possibility.

A loud creak interrupts his thoughts, and if he hadn't been trained not to for so many years, he would have jumped. Instead, he looks around again. The creaking sound is coming from the top of the tower. The clock room. He can see the small door at the top of the stairs. He hears a weak whimper. Like Dick would make when he was twelve and having nightmares.

Bruce quickens his steps.

He climbs up the steps, the metal rungs of the spiral staircase clanking under his boots. He gets to the top. Opens the door.

His eyes widen under the lenses of the cowl.

Hundreds of surveillance cameras adorn every wall of the bare room except for the one directly opposite him, the one the holds the giant glass dial of the clock itself. A chair is located in a corner of the room, with straps at the arms. Straps for securing something. Some _one_.

"Nightwing?" He calls out, looking around. The CCTVs blink with a red light, and he knows they're on. Where are they sending the feed?

" _Every_ house in Gotham," the Joker says from behind him, a dragging noise accompanying his high pitched laugh. "They're broadcasting live, to _every_ house in Gotham!"

Bruce sounds around, a batarang in his palm. He grabs the Joker by the neck, and pushes him again the wall, breaking one of the cameras attached to it. "Where's Nightwing?" He growls.

The Joker laughs, pushing one green strand of hair out of his face, and lightly dabs at a cut on his forehead from the broken plastic casing of the camera. " _Careful_ , Bats. Wouldn't want to give you bad _PR_ , now would we?"

Bruce pushes him harder against the wall, slamming his head against it. "What the _hell_ are you talking about?" He grits out.

The Joker only smiles. "Before anyone tries anything, I _will_ say this. The whole place is rigged to explode," he says, dangling a detonator in front of the cameras for them to see. "If anyone tries to come in, or intervene, I _will_ blow the whole place up." He turns back to Bruce, a twinkle in his eye as he grins.  
"I've just got _something_ about explosions, you know?"

Bruce slams his against the wall again. "You're going to regret saying that." He says, his voice dark.

**___________**

Barbara takes the popcorn bag out of the microwave, blowing on her fingers to keep them from burning. Dad's in the living room, looking for something. She hears a loud clatter, and then a muffled curse.

"Something wrong, Dad?" She calls out from the kitchen, adding some extra salt to her popcorn. Dick thinks it's gross, but she doesn't go around talking about his weird cereal fixation, so he has no right to complain.  
Dick. Huh, come to think of it, she hasn't heard from him recently. She frowns. It's not like him to stop calling. She'll just have to set up a date for them to meet. Maybe tickets for that Knights game next week. Bruce's name might score them some good seats.

"Dad?" She calls out again, when he doesn't reply, "Something wrong? Your paperwork on that bank case is on the side table in the study, if that's what you're looking for."

Still silence.

She frowns again, walking out of the kitchen, bag of popcorn still in hand. Jim Gordon is sitting on the sofa, paying rapt attention to the TV in front of him. He turns to her, and his face looks strangely white.

"Babs?" He says, "you're good with computers, right? Tell me, is it possible? To get on everybody's screen like that?" He points to the TV.

Barbara looks at the TV. She looks at who's on it, and puts the bag of popcorn down before she does something stupid, like drop it.

"Yeah, Dad," Barbara says quietly, looking at Batman punch the Joker over and over again onscreen, "I guess it is."

**___________**

"You don't want me to do that again," Bruce is saying. His face feels strange. Numb, almost. Like it's his face that's being punched. He can hear the blood rushing in his ears. Adrenaline. He can tell, because he doesn't want to stop.

"Yes," The Joker giggles, wiping the blood from his mouth, "yes, I do." He sways on his feet slightly. "Come on," he pants, still chuckling. " _Hit_ me."

"Since you asked so nicely." Bruce says. He hits him again. Hard, in the stomach. The Joker doubles up, laughing. Bruce pushes him back to his feet. Hits him again. Solar Plexus. The Joker coughs, then smiles a bloody grin. One of his teeth has come knocked out. Bruce hits him again. His nose. Again. His jaw. His neck. Collarbone.

The Joker is still laughing. "Come on," he says, spitting out the blood. "Is that all you got, batsy? I bet you can do better."

Bruce agrees with him for once.

**___________**

"Kent!" Perry yells, throwing away Clark's midnight burrito. "Switch on the TV."

" _Hey_!" Clark protests, "I was _eating_ that. I'm working overtime _anyway_ to finish this piece on-"

"I don't care," Perry says, grabbing the remote from Clark's desk. "Look at this. It's on all the major news networks. In Gotham, I've heard it's playing _everywhere_. _Live_ feed."

Clark looks up at the screen. "Holy hell," he says. _Goddamnit_ , Bruce.

Lois is already striding towards him from across the office, stacks of forgotten folders in hand. "You _can't_ go there." She whispers to him when she reaches him, out of Perry's earshot, "You heard him. You _can't_ intervene."

"But Lois," he whispers back, "Bruce's going to _kill_ him." On live television, no less.

Lois stares at him, "That should be the _least_ of your worries. It's _Bruce_ I'm worried about. Something's not right."

**___________**

The Joker is stumbling forward towards him, his face cracked open in manic grin full of bloody teeth. He stretches his arms out, faces the cameras.  
" _Ladies_ and _Gentlemen_ ," he rasps out, "people of Gotham, and by now, I suppose the world," he grins again, looking at Bruce, " _This_ is your Batman. Watch on, as he punches me to death! Be _shocked_ and _amazed_ as he crushes my skull with his bare hands and _amazing_ combat skills! Be _so very inspired_ by Gotham's favourite vigilante, as he kills me _right_ in front of your eyes!"

Joker turns around, back to Bruce. He smiles wide and smug, the smile of someone who already knows he's won. "Ten minutes after I die," he says, "the police will send a small SWAT team here. And guess _what_ , Bats? This time, it _ain't gonna be for me_!" He says, breaking into hysterical laughter. He continues after a pause, in a softer, mockingly sad tone, "Nope! It'll be for _you_ , Bats. Their most _treasured_ vigilante, the _only_ glimmer of hope in this bleak, dark city. The man who promised _never_ to kill," Joker cuts himself off to do a little skip, "Is going to kill _me_! _Finally_ , right? Like we hadn't been waiting and waiting for him to do it. _God, just kill 'im already_ , we all thought. _Kill that sick clown_! And now," the Joker says, pointing to Bruce, "He's gonna do it! I'm _so_ excited!" He says, clapping his hands. "And the _whole world_ will be there to watch you! The _end_ of Batman as we know it. Forced to go underground or disappear, for fear of capture or incarceration. The good ol' Justice League will have something to say too, I'm sure. Man," the Joker shivers, "I wouldn't want to get _Superman_ angry."

"You're _insane_ ," Bruce says, full of disbelief. "You're _actually_ insane. It's not just an act."

The Joker's eyes widen. "Of _course_ I am, Bats! That's kind of my, _you know_ , my gimmick! Cobblepot does organised crime, Nygma's in charge of the brain teasers, and I'm just _batshit crazy_!" He leers at the cameras. "Sorry everyone! That was a pretty bad pun."

Bruce shakes his head. This cannot be happening. It cannot.

"So," Joker continues, turning back around to face him,"let's start the show! Go ahead," he says, stretching his arms out again in a gesture of false goodwill. "Kill me."

**____________**

"Shit," Selina mutters, looking at the small screen of the secondhand television set in her apartment. "Shit shit _shit_."

She grabs her suit out of the tiny closet by the Rembrandt. No one's going to die today. Not on her watch.

**_____________**

"No." Bruce says.

The Joker's smile falters slightly. Flickers, like a malfunctioning lightbulb. " _No_?"

"I'm not going to kill you. I will, however, put you in a cell and make sure you stay there for the rest of your miserable _goddamned_ life." Bruce grits out, his jaw tight. "Get _up_. And give me the detonator."

"Hmm," the Joker says, not sounding as troubled as he had a few seconds before. "While this isn't _quite_ what I expected, I did have a backup plan." He grins. "For _once_. _Ha_! Still, I'm curious. What changed your mind? Did a _new_ little birdy come along? Give you a more _positive outlook_ on life? How _wonderful_ , batsy! When can _I_ meet him?"

"Get up. Give me the detonator." Bruce repeats. His fist is clenched at his side.

"I don't _think_ so, Bats." The Joker says. "But how about we bring the old family together, huh? Maybe _this_ will change your mind." He opens a side door on one wall, and half drags a slumped figure out of the small closet it opened. The slumped over shape shifts, then groans.

"Don't worry," the Joker smiles, "I didn't peek, see?" He grabs a fistful of Dick's hair and pulls up, so that Bruce can see his face in the dim red light of the blinking cameras and the single lightbulb hanging from the low ceiling. Sure enough, his domino mask is still on.

His face however, is a mess. There's a dull, purplish looking bruise covering half his face, and a gash running down one cheek. His nose looks broken, or at least, badly swollen. There's a small trickle of blood running down a cut on his forehead, seeping into the black material of the mask. His eyes are only half closed, but he's clearly unconscious. He looks broken.

"You monster," Bruce whispers, "he's just a kid."

The cameras look on, seeing all.

The Joker shrugs. "I did what I _had_ to do. The _problem_ , batsy, the problem was you weren't paying enough attention to _us_ anymore. To _me_. It was all, _Robin_ this, and _Nightwing_ that, and _family-friendly group patrols_." Joker makes a face, like he finds the very idea distasteful. "You weren't living up to your _full_ potential! You were going soft. _Weak_. Remember the good old days, Bats? _Before_ all this Robin business? It was a just _you_ versus the _evil_ underbelly of the criminal underworld. _Oh_ , but it used to be _so much fun!_ So, I took care of the problem."

"He wasn't a _problem_ , you animal. He was my _son_." He steps slowly towards the Joker. Towards Dick. Maybe if he's quick enough…

The Joker grins again, gleefully. "It's _working_! You're getting _mad_!" He pats Dick's head, and every instinct in Bruce's body tells him to tear apart the Joker ligament by ligament.

He takes a deep breath. "I am _not_ killing you. Step away from Nightwing, and _give_ me the goddamned detonator."

The Joker shakes his head regretfully. "I _hate_ it when you _force_ me to do these things, batman. Sorry it has to come to this." He takes a gun out from inside his coat, and presses the muzzle against Dick's temple.

Three things happen in that moment:

Bruce stretches his arm out to connect it with the Joker's jaw, hoping to knock him unconcious or wrestle the gun from his hands. The Joker tries to duck.

Dick temporarily comes out of his half-drugged and half-unconcious stupor when the cold tip of the gun presses against the side of his forehead, and attempts struggle out of the Joker's grip.

His struggle and Bruce's attempt at the punch make the Joker stumble, and he falls onto his side, and the detonator in that hand is caught between the floor and the weight of his body. It switches on.

A beat.

Then the whole tower explodes.

Bruce grabs Dick's prone body and hurls himself out of the the tower, breaking through the glass wall.

**____________**

Tim flies above the skyline, trying desperately not to crash. Actually, flying is an overstatement. It's more of a series of long jumps. He keeps bumping into things. What is he _doing_? You can't fly a suit If the suit's flight system doesn't actually _work_. The rain that has started to come down in thin sheets isn't helping either. His visibility is low to none. The GPS system ( _that_ one he managed to fix, at least) is the only thing keeping him from flying though a building.

He braves a look downward, at the highways and freeways that, from above, look like tiny crisscrossing ribbons of gray and black. There's no traffic. _None_. At midnight on a weekend in Gotham? Where _is_ everyone?

He bumps into something again, and realises that it's just another bird. "Sorry!" He yells, but 240 pounds of titanium versus half a pound of feathers and beak is really not much of a match, and the bird spirals towards the ground, too dead to accept his apology. Tim winces, but moves on.

By the time he reaches the Clocktower, it's already half past twelve. He descends shakily a few feet from the main entrance, and can tell that it was a bad idea. A dozen or so men surround him, guns cocked and ready.

 _Shit_. Tim looks around though the holographic visor. "I don't want to hurt any of you," he says, hopefully sounding tough.

The men pause. One of them whispers, "Yo, Donny, is that a _kid_ in there? Sounds like one."

Another man, Donny, Tim's guessing, shakes his head in disbelief. "What _the fu-_ "

Tim clocks him upside the head. "I'm not a kid!" He yelps. The power of the suit is stronger than he thought it would be, and the man is thrown back at least ten feet.

The men turn back towards him. Their guns are looking awfully big right now.

"Uh," Tim says, backing away slowly, " _sorry_?"

Something appears in his peripheral vision. Someone. A figure in black, running across a rooftop. Tim turns, the head of the suit rotating slightly to the right.

" _Catwoman_?" He says incredulously.

She grapples down the rooftop, taking out two of the men in the process. "Who are you?" She hisses, looking around warily. The men are surrounding them slowly, forming a circle around them once again.

"Uh, I'm a… friend of Batman's. How- how did you find this place?" He asks, fighting the urge to panic and run.

Catwoman grunts as she slashes a man's side with her claws, and does some kind of intricate kickflip that Tim has only seen before in movies. "There was a giant glass clock on one wall on the live feed. Lucky guess." She says, sarcastically.  
Tim has no idea what she's talking about. _What_ live feed?

Someone shoots at Tim's suit. The bullet pings off harmlessly, but not before giving him half a heart attack. Selina flips the man in question and slams him hard against the ground. She sighs.

"You're _useless_." She says, not unkindly, throwing a punch at another man. The one she took out with the kickflip a minute ago is slowly getting up.

"Uh, I know. Sorry." Tim says. He pushes the man back down, and he falls with a groan. There are about eight more left standing.

"Look. Stop apologising," Catwoman says, tying a man up with her whip, "I'll handle the men, you need to go inside. But be _careful_. I think he still has the detonator."

"What detonator?" Tim is about to ask, before the whole building explodes. They're knocked back by the force of it, and for a few seconds, everything goes black.

**____________**

  
Jason finds Bruce sitting in his chair, in front of the console. "Hey, B? Have you seen that grapple gun I-" Jason stops. He frowns. "Are you okay?"

Bruce turns around to look at him. His eyes are slightly unfocused. "What? Yeah. Go to bed. It's late."

"It's eight thirty, Bruce." A pause. "You're shaking."

"I'm fine." Bruce says, but he's looking at Jason like he's not really there. Looking through him, almost. He's breathing strangely. Too loud.

"Are you- are you having a heart attack or something?" Jason asks slowly, feeling a little freaked out himself.

Even in that state, Bruce can manage to give him the Look. "Don't be ridiculous," he says. "I'm fine. Go back upstairs." He tips his head against the chair and inhales, closing his eyes. Something warm and small curls around his hand. It's Jason's hand. Jason is holding his hand.

"You're not okay," Jason says. It's not a question.

Bruce looks at him. "No." He says. He stares at his hands, as if unsure of what to do next.

"Okay," Jason says, and he slowly climbs into Bruce's lap. Bruce lets him. He's almost twelve, too old to do stuff like this any more. Neither of them mention it. Jason presses against Bruce's chest. He can hear his heart racing under the thin material of his shirt. They sit like that for a while.

"I'm sorry," Bruce says suddenly. His voice sounds loud and abrupt after the long silence. "This- it doesn't, it doesn't happen often. What happened with my parents, that was- it was today so it's," he breaks off and sighs. "I'm sorry." He says again. He's still shaking. Jason can feel it in his arms that are wrapped around Jason's narrow frame.

"It's just a dream," Jason says, looking up at him. He curls up tighter against Bruce. He presses his cheek against Bruce's chest, almost like he's trying to absorb every part of Bruce. Take a part of the pain. "You just need to wake up, right?"

Suddenly, Bruce can feel the pain and blood in his mouth. There's a dull throb in the side of his forehead that's sharpening to a piercing point of pain. His right arm feels like it's on fire. A high pitched whine in his ear. From the explosion? Someone is saying something. Tim? It sounds like he's underwater.

He's back in the batcave again, and Jason is still curled tight in his lap. He strokes Jason's back. Whispers into his hair, "I'm sorry I let you die."

Jason only looks up at him. "Wake up," he says simply.

So Bruce does.

He opens his eyes. His skin feels tight around his face. He can feel air on one side his face. The cowl must have torn in the explosion. His arm. He grimaces. He can feel the bone sticking out.  
Tim's face is above his, and two concerned, blue eyes find his. He's wearing the batwing exoskeleton. "Bruce, you're okay. Thank God," he breathes.

Bruce squints, trying to look around. They're outside the tower now, but there's a smouldering pile of debris around them. The last of the fire is dying out around them. He looks back at Tim. Fixes him with what he hopes is a piercing glare. He's too concussed to tell if it's working.

"I hope you know you're in big trouble. You went against my express orders."

Tim shakes his head, his jaw defiant. "I'm not sorry."

A sudden thought seizes Bruce, and he tenses. "Where's Dick?" He asks.

Tim points to a figure lying down a few feet from them. He's coughing weakly, and looks at the two of them. "Hey," Dick rasps, trying to smile weakly at Tim, "You must be the new kid."

**____________**

They sweep the remains three times for the Joker's body. They find nothing. Not even a finger, or a foot.

"He's _still_ _alive_ ," Harley screams, as they transfer her to Blackgate. "My Puddin', he's gonna come _find me_! _Just you wait_!" She bursts into tears again, and the guards have to carry her the rest of the way to the prisoner transit van.

Batman looks on from the rooftop of the opposite building. He doubts she's wrong, but it's not enough to stop foolish hope from arising in his chest.

**______________**

Tim shuffles into Bruce's study, his hands shoved into his pockets. Bruce is on the other side of the desk, sorting through some paperwork. There's a sling on his right arm, the one he broke in the fall from the top of the tower. Most of his cuts and scratches have healed in the past week, but he still looks a little sickly.

"You wanted to see me?" Tim asks.

Bruce looks up. "Yes. Sit down." He says, motioning to the chair in front of the desk.

Tim sits.

Bruce studies him. "You're smart." He says finally. "Loyal. Quick on your feet. Good at fixing things. At tracking people down, and at doing research."

"Oh," Tim says, colouring faintly. "Thanks."

"Above all, you're brave. And you have a strong moral code." Bruce continues, and he sits down next to Tim. Puts a large hand on his shoulder. "But so did Jason. He possessed all these qualities as well. Do you understand what I'm trying to tell you?"

Tim nods. He thinks he does. He looks at the hand on his shoulder. "You think I might get killed in the field no matter how hard I train, or how smart I am. And that's why I shouldn't be Robin."

Bruce nods. He looks off to the side with a slightly abstracted expression, like he's thinking about something. Finally he sighs. "I can see now that you won't give up." He says slowly, "And that nothing I say can convince you that this is the most dangerous and foolish task that you will ever undertake." He pauses, and Tim holds his breath.

Bruce turns to him again, and he looks almost sad. Older. "Tim, I want you to know that being Robin is _not_ a prerequisite for being my son, and I don't expect you to have to-"

Tim is shaking his head. " _No_! I _know_ that! I just want to help out, Bruce. That's _all_ I ever wanted."

"You can help out in other ways, you can take over Alfred's monitor duty or-"

"I mean _you_ , Bruce. Not help _Gotham_. Help _you_. Someone to help you stay sane." Tim says, smiling a little. "And not, _you know_ , threaten to start parading around _shooting_ people on the road."

Bruce smiles back too, a smaller smile. He hasn't seen Bruce smile for a long time. He looks like he's trying it on for size. It looks kind of awesome on his face. A hint of better times in the past. "That's all over now." He says softly. "I promise."

"Good." Tim says, grinning a little shyly. "I thought you'd gone nutso."

"Well," Bruce says, "not _nutso_ enough to not take you up on your offer, apparently."

Tim gapes at him. "Really?" He squeaks, "you're _really_ gonna let me do it? Be Robin?"

"Against my better judg- _oof_! The arm, mind the arm!" He says, and Tim quickly shifts his body weight off of Bruce's injured arm. " _Thank_ you." He whispers, his eyes shut tight, his arms around Bruce. "Thank you _so_ much. You _won't_ regret this. I swear."

"Yes, well," Bruce says, awkwardly patting his back. "We'll see."

Tim grins and hugs Bruce harder. "Does this mean I can finally get my own pixie boots?"

He can feel the huff of Bruce's laugh in his hair. "That costume is a little outdated." Bruce says, and there's something in his voice that sounds so unbelievably fond. "We'll have to make some updates."

**______** **______**

Selina opens her apartment door with a scowl on her face. As usual.

"You're in _so_ much trouble, buddy." She says, her eyes narrowed. " _First_ off," she starts, "I can't _believe_ you didn't tell me about this entire Joker debacle, and secondly-"

Bruce kisses her.

Selina makes a sound very much like a squeak, bringing her hands up to Bruce's chest in an aborted gesture of self-preservation.

"I'm sorry," Bruce says, being the first to pull away, "but I wanted to thank you." That's sure to shut her up.

Selina disappeared soon after the police arrived on site, complaining that the cops made her nervous. Too soon for Bruce to speak with her properly.

Selina looks up at him suspiciously, her cheeks colouring despite her best efforts. "What's gotten into _you_ today?"

He leans against the door frame. "Why don't you come home, to the manor. See the kid whose life you saved."

She snorts. "Pretty sure he saved _my_ life. He threw us down and covered us during the explosion. That suit came in handy." She pauses. "Come to the manor. You've never asked me that before. We don't have that kind of a-"

"That kind of a relationship." Bruce says, placing a hand on her waist."I know. Maybe it's time we fixed that."

There's a short silence, where Selina stares alternatingly at him and the hand on her waist, like she's not quite sure what to do. Then she huffs, scowling at him again. "Fine," she says finally. "I'll come to your _stupid_ manor."

The corner of Bruce's mouth quirks up. He knows her well enough to be able to tell that she's actually quite pleased. "Good. Let's go. My car's downstairs."

"I'm still mad at you, you know," She says, bumping his shoulder with hers as they walk down the stairs of her apartment building together. Somehow, their hands have become intertwined.

"I know," he says. "Paris. Two weeks. I have a penthouse overlooking the Seine." They reach the second landing.

"Paris is so clichéd, Bruce. St. Barts is where the action's at. Or maybe Cote d'ivoire."

He gives her a look. "Batman can't show up to patrol with sunburn, Selina."

She smirks. "You burn easily. Right. I forgot." She's not mad anymore. Bruce squeezes her hand, and she squeezes back.

They reach her lobby, and Selina gives a low whistle at Bruce's Jaguar.

"How about Paris, and I let you keep the Rembrandt?" He says.

Selina rolls her eyes, but he knows she's trying hard not to smile. "Deal."

  
**_____________**

Dick's lounging in the living room, resting his injured leg on the footstool, flicking through options on Netflix, when Bruce comes in.

"Hey, B." He says, "I'm introducing Timmy to the beautiful world of horror thrillers. For the next eight hours, we and Hitchcock are gonna be best friends. Wanna join?"

"Yeah, Bruce." Timmy pipes up, "you should join." Dick almost laughs. The kid thinks Bruce is a god.

Bruce shakes his head. "No, but thank you. I have weeks of paperwork to get through. I've been falling behind." He pauses. "I _would_ like to speak with you, though." He says, looking at Dick.

"I'm going to go check on the popcorn." Tim says, getting the hint. He gets up and quickly makes his way out of the room.

It leaves Dick alone with Bruce. There is a silence. Dick shifts his leg uncomfortably. There's an itch underneath his cast that he just can't scratch.

Bruce sits down on the couch. "You look a lot better," he says, the first to break the ice.

Dick smiles. "Yeah. I'll be out of your hair and back in bludhaven in no time."

Bruce shifts a little. "You don't _have_ to leave just now. If you don't want to, that is. Alfred misses you."

Dick smiles a little wider. "Just Alfred?"

Bruce looks at him, and there's something inscrutable in his eyes. The look Bruce would give him when he woke Bruce up because he was having a nightmare, or came home crying because he was having a hard time at school. That look he'd get when he broke a vase on the mantle that was from the Ming dynasty or something. A look halfway between affection and exasperation.

"You know what I mean," he says.

"Wouldn't hurt if you _said_ it once in a while," Dick says, and winces when he tries to shift. His abdominal laceration still hurts like a bitch.

"Don't move around so much," Bruce says gruffly, and he sounds so concerned that Dick kinda wants to give him a hug.

"I realise now that I was wrong about a lot of things." Bruce says, looking at his hands. "And you were right that we were _all_ grieving Jason's death. And that maybe you were suffering as much as I was." And then he is silent.

Despite himself, Dick grins. Bruce has always been pretty shitty at apologising.

"You were right _all along,_ Dick. I _miss_ you, _son_. I was _hurt_ by everyone's supposed lack of sympathy and I _acted out_ , Dick. The truth is, I just wanted to be _loved_ and-" Dick is cut off, laughing, when Bruce cuffs him lightly on the side of the head.

"Apology accepted." He says, snickering.

Bruce shakes his head, smiling. They spend some time in silence, and Dick puts on Psycho, pausing it at the logo for Tim.

"I don't really think Psycho is appropriate for thirteen year olds," Bruce points out.

"He's gonna see a lot worse than that, isn't he? If you do what you're saying you'll do and take him to patrol?" Dick says.

"Yes. I suppose." Dick knows that Bruce is looking at him from the corner of his eye, trying to gauge his opinion about the subject.

"I think it's a good idea, Bruce. It's good for both of you." Dick says, looking at him. "It'll help you both."

Bruce nods. "I hope so." He says quietly. He takes something out of his pocket. It's a boarding pass. No, _two_ boarding passes.  
"Something Clark told me a long time back. This is for a few months later, of course," he says, handing them to Dick, "when you're fully healthy again. I was thinking we could take a break for a while. A father-son trip, maybe. Of course, you don't _have_ to-"

"Bruce," Dick says, looking at the two tickets to Hawaii, "are you kidding? No way I'm saying no to a vacation." He grins.

Tim comes back with the popcorn, and Bruce ends up staying with them for their movie marathon after all.

_

  
"Okay. You have to keep you grapple-"

"-gun at your side at all times. I know, Bruce. We've gone through this over and over again. I'll be fine." Tim says, adjusting his cape a little. He gives Bruce a little grin and a thumbs up. "I'm ready. I _have_ been, for the last six months."

Bruce just shakes his head, and gives a little sigh. It looks oddly comical with the cowl on. "I'm doing this for _your_ safety," he says, and he throws Tim his domino mask. Tim catches it with his newly acquired agility and puts it on. He looks at Bruce for the next order.

"Robin," Bruce says, "let's go for Patrol."

And they do.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue up tomorrow! Meanwhile, you can find me [ here.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/lemonadegarden%20)


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just can't seem to stop writing gang wars, haha.

He breaks from the surface of the green with a gasp. The liquid is in his mouth and eyes and ears and it hurts, oh _god_ it hurts so much. It is ice and fire and a storm that pierced through his head with a thousand jagged knives and suddenly he is _alive_ again.

He can feel someone holding him and he jerks away from them, trying to get away from the pool that hurts _so much_ ; millions of needles threatening to shatter his skull as he starts to remember things again. _Jason_. His name is Jason, like the hero who journeyed to find the fleece and vanquished the dragon that protected it. His lungs are filled with the green of the pool, healing him and hurting, _hurting_ him and and driving him _insane_ with the terrible, terrible pain. He tries to clutch at his head, moaning as the green surrounds him, surrounds every part of him, invading him and making him its home. It is beginning to revive his memories, and he can remember trying to fight with the bigger kids for his share of food, punching and kicking and _hurting_. His mother who stared at him with her vacant eyes. A man with light eyes, eyes that were angry and kind and _good_. The memory of a smile shared in the night. A brother? He can't recall; it hurts too much to try. The man bandaging his arm, careful hands with calluses against the gauze, his eyes more worried than angry this time. A field full of flowers somewhere. They were dying because there was no rain. _He_ was dying. The man running across a rooftop in the night, and someone saying something into his ear with a sick laugh. A crowbar hitting his legs, and oh _god_ even if he survived this he would _never be able to walk again_. Green hair and crazy eyes. The man had a father; he made him food and cut his hair. Perfectly polished silverware. A cape whipping in the wind. The man laughing at something he said, something he can't remember. The fire in the explosion that killed him, the heat and smoke and sulphur in his eyes and teeth, his fingernails melting right off his skin but he was too dead by then to know it, the man shouting something into his earpiece, the man hugging him when he cried from nightmares, the man who always, _always_ knew where to find him when he ran away, who brought him home, the man whose name was-

" _Bruce_ ," he gasps out, sputtering and panting, the green of the Lazarus glimmering with a quiet evil, "Where's Bruce?"

He's in a pool of some sorts, right in the middle of it, heaving and thrashing in the viscous liquid. There are people all around him, standing on the stone bank above the pit, watching him with expectant looks. A small boy is in the corner of the room, his arms crossed, his face expressionless. Something about him reminds Jason of Bruce, and he tries to get out of the pit once again, but his arms are too weak. Someone is holding him tight, keeping him immersed in the fluid. Someone is cradling him, brushing his hair back from his forehead.

Talia Al Ghul smiles wide and knowing, holding his prone body in her arms. "Welcome back to the world, Jason Todd."

**__________**

It all happens very fast.

Tim has been Robin for three years now, but he's never seen anyone fight like _this_. The man weaves in and out of through the hail of bullets like some kind of speedster. Tim almost wants to root for him. Except, he knows that in situations like this, he and Batman are supposed to be neutral parties. Break _up_ gang wars, not _join_ them.

Except, this really isn't a war. It's a massacre.

The man shoots back at them with startling accuracy. It feels like he may be grinning behind that red helmet of his.

Maroni's men are taken out first. Then Falcone's. The Bertinelli men, who'd been siding with the Falcones', get their heads blown up. Perfect headshots, all of them. He does his work fast and well.  
Black mask and his men (Marconi's side) start looking skittish and make the extremely _smart_ decision of throwing a fucking _grenade_ at him. In Bruce's highly complicated index for classifications regarding the severity of gang wars, this one has just been upgraded from a standard B level (three or more groups, heavy fire) to B-1.4 (three or more groups, heavy fire+minor/handheld explosives). Which means they're going to have to make a whole lot more arrests. _Great_.

The man ducks and rolls, crouching with his arms and legs tucked under himself. He doesn't try to run, or even to pick up the grenade and throw it back at them, which Tim's seen some daredevil types try before, getting their hands blown off in the process. He stays low and tucks in until the grenade goes off, and then he gets up, just as calm, and puts a bullet in the head of the man who threw it.

Funny, that's just how Bruce trained _him_ to avoid grenades. Everything, even the particular position he was in when he was crouching is the exact same. Tim turns to see if Bruce has noticed, but he's too busy taking out some Street Demonz kid, (he doesn't even remember whose side _they're_ on) and the man starts to shoot dangerously close to Bruce. Tim spins his bo staff. Time for action.

He makes his way across the narrow road slowly, knocking out some assorted members of different gangs in the process. He even thinks he sees the Abramovici twins somewhere in the fray. _Awesome_ , he thinks dryly. Everyone has decided to show up to the party. The man with the red helmet looks at him. Pauses.

"This is almost like an out of body experience," the man says. "I feel like I'm looking at myself when I was sixteen. Except I was bigger. And a better fighter. And I was more handsome." He shrugs. "Whatever. He had to pick _someone_ , right?"

And then he shoots Tim in the stomach.

Tim falls to the ground, his bo staff clattering uselessly onto the rain-slicked pavement. It feels like one of those slow-motion hero deaths in movies, except time hasn't slowed down at all, and there's a lot of burning pain. Like someone has jammed a red-hot poker into his abdomen. He can hear someone screaming, and fleetingly it occurs to him that he's the one doing it.

Suddenly Bruce is next to him, kneeling beside him on the pavement, and he's pressing a bandage onto his side, saying something about flesh wounds and ruptured spleens. He can hear the fighting still going on in the back.

The man in the red hood is staring at them almost curiously, his head cocked to a side, like he's trying to figure something out.

"Does he take you to that diner afterwards? The terrible one, at the corner of Park and 22nd? Hash browns and a milkshake at 2 AM, right?" He says. He's talking to them almost offhandedly now, running a hand over the edge of his gun with gloved fingers.

Bruce, still kneeling next to him, freezes. Tim has no idea what the man's talking about.

"No?" The man says, sounding surprised. "I guess that was just our thing then, huh B?"

Bruce is going white under his cowl. "Who are you?" He asks, his voice raspy.

The man in the red hood laughs. It's a little lilting, slightly wry. "I noticed that the pixie boots are gone now. _One_ good change, at least."

If Bruce was pale before, he looks like he's completely drained of blood now. " _Jason_?" He whispers.

"No." Jason says. His voice is clipped. Hard. "I'm the red hood. I'm going to clean up Gotham. And it's best that you stay the fuck out of my way."

Then he's gone.

Bruce and Tim look at each other, small players in just another massive gang battle, tiny pawns in the huge chess game of war. Of Gotham.

"What do we do?" Tim asks, his hands clutching the wound at his side. Blood seeps through anyway. Uncontainable. Irrational.

"I don't know." Bruce says. He doesn't say anything else.

He doesn't say anything on the way back to the manor either, with Tim staring at him the whole time, trying to desperately, fervently guage his reaction. He doesn't say anything when he's watching Alfred pick out the bullet fragments from Tim's stomach, or when Tim's being stitched up, post surgery. He doesn't say anything when he's writing up the incident report for the the night. He even stays silent when Tim falls asleep, curled up on the cot in the medbay with his head on top of his laptop, an accidental nap while trying to research the Red Hood.

Bruce shuts the laptop with a click, and pulls a blanket over Tim. He can hear Bruce fidget with the morphine drip a little, and slowly his side begins to hurt a lot less. It feels like he's floating on clouds made of cotton. There is a pause, and then Tim feels the side of the bed dip a little with Bruce's weight. A kiss is pressed to the side of his head, and the laptop is extricated gently from his fingers.

After a while, curiosity gets the better of him, and Tim cracks his eyes open slightly. Bruce has logged onto deep archival through his computer. He's looking at incident report #897. The events of April 27th, three years ago.

He stares at it for a long time. Then he deletes the whole thing.

In the dimmed lights of the medbay, he thinks he can see Bruce smiling slightly. He looks the happiest he's maybe _ever_ seen him.

And that, he decides, is worth losing a spleen a thousand times over.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all SO much for reading! I'd love it if you left a comment and let me know what you thought. I hope you all loved reading this as much as I loved writing it. Oh, and I promise that I will reply to everyone's previous comments as soon as I can, just a bit busy atm.
> 
> Thanks again! I love you guys, haha.


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